When it comes to kissing, practice makes perfect 2
by SugaryLaces
Summary: Nora was kidnapped and held prisoner by an abusive captor. Her only hope is Patch. But when he arrives, he has another girl on his arm. He needs to protect Nora by distance, but under life threatening danger, can the two stay away from each other?
1. Chapter 1

_**Sequel (Part 2) to when it comes to kissing, practice makes perfect!**_

_**(It's not necessary though to read Part 1! :D EVERYONE'S WELCOME! XD)**_

**Hello everyone! How are you all? :) Hanging in there, I hope!**

**Welcome to Part Two of _When it comes to kissing, practice makes perfect_! Enjoy your stay, haha! :P And apologies for the dumb title of this story (When it comes to kissing, practice makes perfect 2), I suck at titles..**

**I got _amazing _support for the first part of this story, _thank you all so very much again_, and I could only wish I get even a third of that for this part. So, if you have time and it's not trouble, I'd _love_ if you could leave me a review, or send me a message, or something, just to tell me what you thought. :) They're very, very much appreciated, and I love hearing what you have to say, what ideas you all have, etc!**

**Anyways, so I'll leave you go. Apologies for the long wait between the two parts. I hope you enjoy reading this! _Please, please_ leave a review, if you can, and have a good weekend! :) xxx**

**Stay safe!**

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><p>Saxon Jeremiah Sinclair was his name, and he undoubtedly deserved the torment he most likely received for it. Head teeming with hair as fair as creamy milk, his smile was one to turn your stomach. It revealed two identical rows of gleaming, square teeth, to untrained eyes appearing polite and approachable, but to anyone unfortunate enough to have experienced or become accustomed to the much bleaker brush strokes of his personality, glittering with tainted ideas. The same, mirrored thoughts which captured his slate grey eyes, overwhelmed them, and heightened how much they dramatically stood out against his pallor skin and constant wear of an inky black suit and button down white shirt.<p>

The pristine windows of the dining area engulfed the entire right side of the room. Reached from the tip top of the contemporary wallpapered walls and swooped down to brush the white oak flooring. Every day they were meticulously cleaned and polished, and because of this, combined with the eerie darkness which had spread outside, now sparkled with the various reflections of the nest within. Rich crimson shaded tablecloth, ghosting over the dark wooded table, where softly flickering candles were situated. The ruler straight posture of the pianist, eyes gently closed as he drew twinkling notes from the black grand piano in the far corner. Once the sun set, the windows transformed into something more like a startlingly clear mirror.

Unfortunately, once I managed to unfix my bleary eyes from the projection of Saxon, chortling heartily with his guests and delicately sipping at his fat wine glass of amber liquid, they found their way to the concise image of myself. With a gaunt face, I was wrapped in a light fabric, chalkboard black dress, fitted all too snugly to the ends of my ribs, where it then thickened and fell into frothy ruffles, ending four centimetres above my knees. A silvery white apron, rimmed with decorative frills, lay fluffed over my stomach and thighs, and was tied soberly around my waist into a small bow. The sleeves were puffy and then banded closely around my upper arm- in the beginning, I was often distracted by them when I caught glances from the corners of my eyes. Shoes, completely gleaming and not at all scuffed (Heaven forbid, ironically, if they were ever dirty or dusty), were flat to the ground and unsurprisingly, black. _Sturdy and practical_, the box had smugly stated. And finally to finish the nineteenth-century-turned-modern maid look with a flourish (and exposed legs), my hair was scraped to one side in a tightly knitted braid.

The sight sickened me, almost as much as the look of pure and utter disgrace did as I watched it creep silently and slowly across my pale face. The golden plated tray, stacked with a pretty bowl of strawberries and two brimming wine glasses, shook in my hands. Hastily, I gripped onto its side with my free hand and steadied it. Saxon was still conversing happily with his dinner friends, I noted with a cold wash of relief, there was no way I'd skitter away unscathed if the tray had tipped and deposited the items from atop onto the unstained floor. Taking in a deep, calming breath which tickled the back of my throat, I twisted away from the picture of myself and faced the table.

Towards the end, and at the opposite side, stood Aida, soundless and attentive to the beck and call of all of the guests, whatever it may be. Aida was all prominent cheek bones, spidery metacarpals, sharply knotted hair buns, and snappy, insulting comments. She was the only other maid under Saxon's roof, though there were many other cooks, butlers, bed turners, clothes washers, gardeners, and as far as I had gathered, willingly worked here. Saxon regarded her with a sort of long earned respect, even trusted her with the responsibility of hauling me back into line whenever I threatened a toe out of place. Of course, though, he carefully followed up on that, as he always did.

Now, Aida's beady eyes widened, a friendly warmth unfamiliar to me coming to them as a man seated to the left of Saxon turned to study her. "Get me one of them," he said, indicating with a nod of his head to the glass in Saxon's hand, "would you?"

"Certainly," she answered smoothly. She smiled briefly at the man, who returned it charmingly, and then her eyes snapped to mine. I gulped, murmuring urgent prayers that it was inaudible, as she marched around the table and came to a halt before my shivering tray. "I need this," she told me matter-of-factly, and plucked the largest glass up into her thin fingers. This time when she turned to the man to hand him his expensive drink, the happy light flared too bright in her eyes.

Fake. It was blatantly obvious. Yet, I wished, why couldn't _I _do that? If I had been able to, maybe then I wouldn't have suffered so much brutality at Saxon's hands- he never seemed to want to shout at Aida. Casting a surreptitious glance at my wrists, I was reminded that the blue-black bruises, scattered scratches and yellowish dents which had flowered during nightmares I had where Saxon would follow me forever were now fading into my skin, soon to be invisible. There was a more vicious gash following the slant of my protruding collarbone, that had now faded into a slight, jutted pink line. I'd received it after a nasty fall when I was too exhausted to see my own hand in front of my face. My battered spirit, who formerly gave the best fight of its life, but was now tired and punctured. Saxon had never hit or kicked me, but shouted and snarled enough to scare me into silence. The physical affects of verbal abuse and exhaustion would completely disappear over time, but sadly, it was not possible for me to follow, so instead I would continue my attempts at mimicking Aida, programmed and almost robotic, until I could escape.

The first bucketful of dreary weeks, I fought. I struggled with the chains he wanted to clip me into as much as I could humanly manage but, eventually, he'd worn me down to the core. There was only so much hellish shouting, , spitting, and starving that one girl could take, and I had broken under Saxon's navy heeled boot. The hard way, I'd learned that the only road to survival was to be a good girl. The only hope I had now was Scott, the perseverance to survive in the pit of my belly, and Patch.

A coil in my stomach tightened and curled together uncomfortably at the thought of _him_. True, the dreams and memories were the only spoonfuls of hope which I was getting, nourishing and soothing my scarred heart, but I only sought them out at night time, when I could dodge reality for a stolen moment and remember his promise to find me. By the time day was drawing to a close and night approached, I would almost believe that I had subconsciously conjured up the memory. It was then that I'd crawl into the rocky bed, squeeze my eyes shut and relive the last time I'd seen him.

It wasn't a dream. He _had _sworn to find me, and it was the last thread I had to hold onto.

Abruptly, Saxon broke off his trail of speech mid-sentence, pushed away from the table, chair legs grating loudly against the floor, and looked straight at me. He was just a bit taller than average height, muscled and strong. Someone might even find him _handsome_, if only the sticky twirls of evil clinging to his aura were nonexistent.

"Maid," said he, addressing me. With a flick of his wrist, he gesticulated to the door, a coy smile sneaking onto the edges of his lips. My skin blazed with heat, an instant film of absolute nervous sweat coating the hairs of my arms and the back of my neck. "Outside," he said in a quiet, demanding voice. I felt my chest tighten, the air of which my lungs were expelling twisting into a knot in the back of my throat. I'd been sure to work well today, I hadn't tripped, fallen, smiled or laughed. My knees wobbled, but I forced an obedient nod of my head. What could he want me alone for?

After graciously excusing himself from his friends, he crooked a callused finger at me and fearfully, I followed behind with leaden footsteps. My palms were slick with moisture now, I realised, as I discreetly wiped them against the material of my apron.

"Young Nora," he said. Fair haired Saxon loomed over me, although he was not much taller, I cowered in front of him like a wounded puppy. "You've been great today," he said, and reached out to brush the backs of his fingers to the flushed skin of my cheek, almost affectionately. A psychological frosty breeze tickled my skin- it took everything in me not to flinch away. Sickeningly, I tasted a strong coppery liquid on the tip of my tongue from where I'd gnawed into it. But regardless, I gathered my feeble strength and struggled to raise my eyes tentatively to his. His gaze met mine with a calculating sheen, rolled over my face before his entire expression fell into something that could only be considered as the pinnacle of disappointment. "But," he continued, sorrowfully, "you were not yesterday. So for that reason…" The morose, almost guilty, expression dwindled as fast as it had come, startling me further, and a magnificently happy smile spread across his face. "No dinner tonight."

As if it was able to hear his words, my stomach groaned audibly in protest. "But, Sir," I blurted, in a soft voice, the inklings of blood from my mouth becoming clear against the whiteness of my lips. I hadn't meant to speak, but it was almost like the aching growl of famishment was ruling my brain, deciding which words came out of my mouth and when. "I haven't eaten since the day before yesterday-" I sucked in a hasty breath, instantly regretting ever even _thinking _the words. My chest twisted into more knots- tangles upon tangles that made me want to retch. Reflexively, my hands curled together in front of my stomach and I wrung them anxiously.

As I considered what I thought to be the so far height of my stupidity in recent days, the sadistic smile on Saxon's face twitched around the edges, his whole expression hardening into a sort of impermeable cement. "Did you just back talk to me?" he asked very quietly, his voice rigid with control, though a muscle in his cheek jumped. I recognised the signs of his down spiral right away- if I didn't tread carefully, he'd snap. Fretfully, my eyes flickered to the fists at his sides, curling in on themselves into thick bunches of anger. I shook my head, a strand of hair falling free from the clutches of the elastic band in my braid and laying over my nose. "No," I stuttered, meeting his eyes again. "I wasn't-"

"And now you _lie to me_?" Though the volume of his voice only grazed upon what would be used in normal conversation, it sent burning skitters dancing down my spine. "To my _face_?"

Again, I tried to repair my mistakes, no matter how much the voice in the back of my head whispered _you're in for it now_. "No, Sax-," I cleared my throat, "Sir. No, Sir. I was just-.. I swear-"

"You're _swearing _in my company?"

Tears burned away the edges and corners of my vision. The jitters lacing my system, both freezing and scorching me simultaneously, increased tenfold. "_No_," I said, my voice a hoarse, badly restrained sob. I dried my hands futilely for the second time on the pleated material of my dress, my breathing hitching and becoming unsteady. I began again, "I'm sorry, Sir, I-"

Interjecting, he frightened me into utter silence with a shout that spilled from his lips. "Aida!" he barked, tapping his shoe timely against the polished floor. What felt like milliseconds later, Aida materialised before us, her eyes wide and searching as she expertly juggled a man's long jacket and her tray of goods between her arms. "Yes, Sir?" she questioned him, canting her head to the right.

"I thought I asked you to show Nora how to _behave_?"

I felt Aida's eyes move to analyse me, but was unable to meet them. "I did teach her how to behave," she said plainly and simply, casting a long, heftily layered glance my direction. "I taught her well."

"Most obviously not," came the scoffed response. Saxon readjusted himself by folding his arms tightly, and I ignored a slimy streak of fear as it grazed my heart. "In the last minute or less, the girl has succeeded in disrespecting me, lying to my eyes and then swearing! I reward you well for your work, Aida, but this is sloppy."

"I'm very sorry, Sir." Her eyes were fixated on my face once more, brimming with plans of discipline. "It will _not _happen again," she promised sternly, lifting her chin determinately into the air.

Hovering there with repressed shudders of nerves, it felt like an age had passed as Saxon glanced between the two of us, thoughts clear on his face, before speaking. "Very well," he exhaled heavily, and began fluttering his hand dismissively in front of himself. "As you are so sure, you can take her back now. I was going to discuss some matters with her, but because I have guests… go." I was glad for the permission as not two seconds later, while Aida hurried me roughly away, a cold, frightening light came to his eyes.

My room, which I shared with Scott, was located in the weary bowels of the building. Inside, was a rusty metal double bed, a damaged vanity desk, a wardrobe, a barred window, and a space for a door that was barricaded with black painted bars from the ceiling to the floor. A coarse film of dust and dirt covered the ground and everything inside, and most nights we were woken by the sounds of the bustling kitchen next door or interrogation room down the corridor. Stepping into this hallway and any of the rooms along it was like falling back into the nineteenth century, the area, apart from the modern kitchen, was entirely lit with candles.

Noiselessly, I sank onto the bench in front of the vanity desk and started unravelling the twists in my hair. Twice a week we were allowed a bath, but mine wasn't until the following day, and so when the braid fell away, my hair lay brittle and fragile against the back of my neck. Clanks of banging metal pots, chafing silvery cutlery, and tinkling glasses ricocheted thunderously between the four cement walls from next door, along with a handful of yelps and shouts from the overexcited cook and his servers. Blinking lethargically back at me was my reflection, distorted by a slivery strip of a crack in the mirror nailed to the wall, where Saxon had once thrown Scott in the midst of a brawl. It had taken two hours to carefully pick out the sharp shards from the sensitive skin of his bleeding shoulder. My normally lively curls were limp and devoid of any life, they had even lost their auburn tints. The unusual grey of my eyes had darkened into something of a pale building brick colour, hard and severe, scarily huge against the gaunt hollowness of my cheeks. To escape the image of myself for the second time that night, I gingerly pressed my fingertips to the sides of my heads, felt for my temples and prayed the headache that I could feel gathering there would dissipate.

"Get your heads off of me!"

Suddenly, Scott's snarls of displeasure filled the room, and I jumped in fright. Spinning around on the bench, I was in time to catch sight of one of Saxon's men, or you could say an extension of his dominant arm, push and then trip Scott so that he skittered and tumbled down the set of fierce angled steps before our barred door. He hit the bars with such a force that a shower of grainy dust particles were knocked from the ceiling and fell to the ground. Groaning through clenched teeth, he hauled himself to his feet and faced the stairs. "Coward!" he shouted, followed by a tidal wave of curses at the sound of the man's hearty laughter. "Five against one was unfair, but you just wait until we're alone!"

"_Scott_," I hissed. "Shut up or you'll get in more trouble!"

He didn't spare me a single glance, instead continued spitting and grinding out cuss words, some of which he surely invented himself, until Toby, one of the rare people in the house I trusted, materialised and unlocked our room. "In you go, Scottie," he encouraged, wrapping a hand around Scott's upper arm and yanking him inside the room. "Keep your mouth shut, boy, it'll only get you deeper into that hole." One night when completely and totally blind drunk, Toby had admitted to us that he was a prisoner too, but because now he had nowhere to go or no family, if he was ever freed, he was stuck in Saxon's. "See you later, kids," he mumbled, before relocking us with a guilty expression and dragging his feet away.

"What's up, Grey?"

Snappily, my eyes moved to Scott, hunched in a ball on the floor. Pale faced, his trembling hand was clutched firmly over his left forearm, and thick scarlet liquid broke through his fingers. Even so, he had enough strength to flash me a pained grin. "Oh, boy," I gasped, stumbling off the stool onto my hands and knees and scrabbling to his side. "What happened now?"

"I didn't do what they told me to," Scott replied, wincing and hissing like a dog as I gently pried his hand from its chokehold on his arm. The lines of his palms were slippery with blood as he pressed them into the floor, flexing his fingers over and over in discomfort. "Sorry," I mumbled, clamping my own right hand over the gaping, angry wound along his skin and reaching my other under the bed to withdraw the first aid box. This particular injury was thankfully not so terrifying, the worst was when a bullet tore through his shoulder and continued to break through the other side. The majority of evenings, Scott returned broken and damaged in some way or another, and we spent the next hour or so bandaging him up and making him whole. And despite my persistent questioning, he blatantly brushed aside my concern and refused to tell me what happened. His answer was always _I didn't do what they told me to_. It worried me greatly, not knowing what was happening to him every day, as we were separated, but over time, I grew to realise that inquiring was getting me nowhere.

Just shy of an hour later, I peeled back the off-white duvet of our creaking bed and climbed between the sheets. "Do we get dinner tonight?" Scott wondered from his position sprawled across the foot of the piece of old furniture, good arm crossed beneath his head and bandaged arm in a makeshift sling on his chest. "I'm starved."

"Not tonight," I whispered back, curling my legs into my chest and rolling onto my side.

"Oh."

"Yeah." Unconsciously, I stroked the concisely cut ring on my finger, twisted it over and over and inhaled a deep, calming breath of the pure security I felt whenever I wore it. Never was I allowed wear it during work, I had enough bruises and scrapes as proof of my attempts, so sadly, I resorted to pulling it on at bedtime and prayed it would bring me good dreams.

Not quietly in the slightest, Scott struggled into a seated position and crawled up the bed to clamber in himself. Warmth from his body instantly radiated through and was absorbed by the sheets, his stomach grumbled irritably as I let free a tiger yawn. "How long now?" I asked, sinking deeper into the covers and pulling them securely up to my chin. Scott moved, resulting in a high pitched whine of protest from the bed, and heaved a sigh. "Eleven weeks," he answered, in such a small voice that I strained to hear it. "Eleven weeks."

Exactly as we were now accustomed to, we drifted into fitful, restless bouts of slumber as the room was set alight with screams of agony from the interrogation room, the heady scent of burnt candle wax mixed with spicy, suffocating herbs from the kitchen, and the deep tenor of cook's instructions.

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><p><em><strong>Ta da!<strong>_

**So, _so_, what do you think? Is Patch going to arrive in his shining armour and save her (and probably leave Scott 'cause it's funny)? What do you think? Do you like Saxon? :P**

**_What did you think?_ Leave me a review or something, if it's no trouble!**

**Thank you so much for reading! Bye! :) xx**


	2. Chapter 2

**_HAPPY EASTER (to everyone who celebrates it)_! Hope you all had a good one, haha :)**

**Thank you all _SO_ much for the reviews and messages and alerts, much appreciated, my lovelies! I love hearing your thoughts, haha, so keep it up! :D It's what keeps me writing. :D xx**

**I actually really enjoyed writing this chapter, so I hope you like reading it. Patch, Patch, Patch! :DD Just finished writing this literally, so if there's any errors, I shall be back to correct them. **

**Please leave me a review if you can! :D Seriously, thank you so much guys, much much love, bye! xx**

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><p>The sun's heat belted down from the sky like the sharp scorching rays of a one hundred degree oven. It's light crawled carelessly over the dark, dew-damp grass, slapping forth a brighter, healthier paint slosh of bright green and giving the dancing flowers a caress of vibrant colour. It quietly seeped into the house, through each and every widely cracked open window which allowed in warm gushes of river scented air. Though I'd be reluctant to admit, the day was nice and the house was a sight.<p>

Nice. A word that had been completely foreign to me, slippery on my tongue, for the past eleven weeks. One which as it slithered back into my vocabulary to commend the day's weather, caused me to choke up and dismiss the thought quickly.

My fingers were sore and the joints of my knuckles ached with exhaustion. With a fistful of effort, I stifled a heavy sigh and picked up the eighteenth pair of shoes tangled together as one mass of rusty buckles and frayed laces from the box by my side, brought it into my lap and began scrubbing the barely born scuffs from it with the makeshift, brittle toothbrush Aida had presented me with. As so-called _lenient _punishment for disrespecting Saxon the night before, he had had me dragged from my room at five in the morning to serve breakfast, and then after forcing me to sit by his side as he indulged in the fattening, satisfying meal, directed me to a separate dining room where I spent over two hours shining and polishing fat wine glasses until they glittered untainted with his calculating reflection. I hoped that I was then finished. That maybe he'd leave me go, offer me even the tiniest of meals, and not call on me until later that evening. But, of course, I was wrong, and to reprimand my questioning, lunch was overlooked and a big box of shoes was thrust into my arms. To aggravate the situation (and myself) even further, he instructed that I sit alone on the bitty porch to the side of the house, where the hot tiles burned the backs of my legs and direct sun reddened my arms and neck.

I repressed the shudders of famish in the pit of my stomach and forced my trembling fingers to clean the brown leather shoe. "Almost there," I muttered in a breath to myself, and used the back of my wrist to wipe a lock of hair from my sticky forehead.

"Need any help there, missus?" an accented, male voice inquired just as a shadow spread across my lap, making me squirm in fright.

"No, thank you, sir," I automatically replied, snapping my head skywards to drink a glance of the speaker. His skin was lightly tanned, a thick mop of chocolate coloured hair plopped messily on the top of his head, which he ran a hand through whilst observing me with large, friendly green eyes. "Are you certain?" he wondered, a smile tweaking his pale lips and gradually inching up his windswept cheeks. "Looks like you got yourself a lotta' work there," he looked pointedly at the box beside me. An involuntary bubble of relief unfurled its fingers in my chest at the realisation that it wasn't Saxon or Aida, nor any of their counterparts, but was quickly diluted when I remembered Saxon's malicious threats to hurt the people I loved if I ever tried to escape. I couldn't cry out to this man.

"No, I'm managing okay, thanks."

The man's stare climbed from my startled eyes, drifted down my pink arms and examined the dusty material of my uniform dress. Uncomfortably, I shifted under his scrutinising, and moved to snatch the half finished box into my arms and stood. "If you'll excuse-"

"Do you work in the hotel?" he interrupted, peeling his eyes away long enough to raise a hand and point to the building looming behind me. _Hotel_. My eyes narrowed considerably. So that's what they were calling it now. I opened my mouth to answer in a firm _no_, but for the second time, he cut me off.

"You see, my wife and kids and I are visiting family in the town over. My wife and her sister are close and-" To my steadily growing blank expression, he paused, scratched at the spot behind his ear and then hesitantly restarted. "Long story short; we got lost so we're eight hours behind schedule, it's getting dark and we saw flyers about an opening of this place tonight."

Again, my entire face was a wash of confusion. What the hell was he talking about? Saxon (nor anyone else who knew what went on, for that matter) would never dub this place a hotel, a place of relaxation, and so I felt the bewilderment in my chest fill my eyes. This then quickly twisted into frustration. Here this middle-class man was, content to traipse around the country with his happy little family, while I remained a prisoner. It wasn't _fair_, I wanted to argue, what had I done that was so awful I deserved months of slavery?The ordinary man was the personification of my breakaway- I could see it, touch it, hear it, yet would never have it. Jealousy was thick on my lips, boiling just below the surface and contaminating my mind with fog, but, just as I was about to do something drastic like flip the guy off, I picked up on a sound coming from the room behind the back porch door. And my reply died before it could live, zealous anger dwindling to cold nausea. Stick thin heels clicking their way along shining tiles. A terse mutter of complaint about the brush of dirt on the window. _Aida_. With frightening sureness, I realised that if I wasn't polite to the man, I'd be punished. Badly.

"Missus?" the man prompted, becoming awkward in my glossy eyed silence and began shuffling his feet. "Um, my family is out front waiting, so.."

"Sorry, I.."

_I what_? What could I say to this person that would be of high enough standard to pass Saxon's inspections (and thus dodge a blow)? What could I say without giving away that I had _absolutely no idea_ of what he was chattering about? I considered this place a prison, my own personal hell, I couldn't even remotely view it as a hotel! I tightened and loosened my grip on the box, lips parting and sliding shut as my mind raced, hastily trying to decipher what to do-

And Aida burst through the door onto the porch, sporting an ankle length fluttery blue dress, straightened locks bouncing far past her shoulders and lips turned up into a grin fit to challenge the actors and actresses on teeth whitening advertisements. To say my eyes nearly dropped to the floor along with my jaw would be an understatement. Barely spinning a glance my direction, she bustled forward to the man and warmly gripped his right hand in both of hers. "Welcome, welcome!" she cried happily. "We're so happy to have you here on the official opening night of Sinclair Hotel!"

"Oh," the man breathed, accepting her erratic handshake and returning it more gently. "Thank you. I was just talking to your-"

"Our kitchen help, yes," Aida supplied, referring to my slack face and nodding enthusiastically.

"-and I was wondering about-"

"The opening night, yes, are you looking for a room?"

Releasing her hands, he leaned back and took a deep breath in. Aida picked up on the hint and stepped a little away with a sheepish glint in her eyes. "Yeah," the man responded. "My wife and three kids are out front."

"Oh, a family! Saxon will be so pleased, even more guests for his party," gushed Aida. "Can I invite you all in?"

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><p>There was a hollow <em>thud <em>against the bars of the door of the room that Scott and I shared. It ricocheted around the room so recklessly that I leapt high from the stool at the vanity desk, fingers knotted into the braid in my hair in an attempt to untangle it. A surprised trickle of noise left my lips as I stumbled over my own feet, scrabbled for the rusty iron pillars at the foot of the bed and uneasily steadied myself.

"_Grey_," came a hoarse, harsh whisper in a familiar guy's voice. Pressing himself impossibly close to the bars, Scott struggled and failed to squeeze through the tightly spaced openings. "You're going to have to let me in," he hissed, reaching a hand, then an arm, through and flexing his fingers over and over as if it would help.

My jaw all but unhinged and fell from my face. I _had _to be hearing things.. _Seeing _things. Scott, I knew very well, was a complete moron at times but was not stupid enough to-

Across the room, his eyes connected with mine and there was such a fierce, playful anticipation in his, like a child who had successfully stolen the last chocolate bar and was on track to safety but not quite there yet, that I wanted to smack him across the side of the head. What an idiot! I _wasn't _going insane, but this was a very bad thing as it meant he was _really _trying to squash through the bars and was surely going to be caught, and consequently, we'd never be shown mercy again. To add to this, to make matters worse, he picked the one afternoon that I was freed from work much earlier than normal to become a complete screw up.

Cocking my hands on my hips, I narrowed my eyes and glared white hot bullets his direction, hoping they scored. "And what the _hell _am I supposed to do?" I demanded irately. "It's not like we have a key handy or anything!"

Scott grinned broadly, brightly, and even went as far as chuckling at me. "That's half the fun, Grey," he explained, wriggling his eyebrows. "You need to find something to-"

"If there was anything in here that would open that door," I interrupted, my voice quiet but grazing on becoming a fierce growl. "We would've found it _weeks _ago."

"Do you have to be such a _killjoy_-" And the sentence died on his lips. Steps away from him, where my principal plan was to haul him painfully and slowly through the cracks between the bars, I stilled as he tensed, turning icy and unmoving, apart from lifting a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. In situations like these, times when you expect a leering face to shoot out an arm, snatch your friend from before your eyes and torture him for disobeying, everything slows down. The gentle _whoosh _of each of our frantically quietened breathing increased tenfold in decibels, so much so that I wanted to flinch. The narrow shadow of Scott inched across the wall behind him, only noticeable if you looked for it, became inkier and stood out like a sore thumb. His eyes, usually so open and calm and reassuring, flashed with coarse terror, before he concealed it by glancing away from me. Neither of us dared to move a muscle, blink an eye, while heavy footsteps bounced off the walls along the corridor adjacent to our room and grew closer, closer-

At the same time as I squeezed my eyes shut, Scott's face crumbled in on itself in defeat.

And then Toby, sporting an alarmed expression, materialised and the panic that had abruptly gripped my system in a chokehold evaporated so hastily that I was knocked off balance. "Scottie boy?" he questioned in disbelief, squinting and leaning over to examine Scott's features. An audible huff of relief fell from Scott whilst the ice melted and his shoulders sagged. "It's me, Toby," he confirmed, nodding with his head down.

"_Boy_, what do you think you're doing?"

"Uh-"

"Get inside!" Toby barked, grabbing Scott by the scuff of his neck and knocking him roughly out of the way. "Damn kids tryna' get yourselves killed," he muttered, rapidly unlatching a set of thick keys from a buckle at the back of his belt and swinging one into the keyhole of our door. Simultaneously, he kicked at the bars, which flew back on their groaning and whining hinges, and shoved Scott inside. "_Stay put_," were his angry, parting words, then he twirled and marched on along the corridor gloomily.

Just to annoy him, Scott gave an exaggerated, overly friendly wave and paired it with a sickly sweet smile. By the time he'd collected himself after doubling over at the middle in a fit of laughter, and spun around to face me, I was ready to decapitate him. "Aw, Nora," he cooed mockingly, walking forwards and poking my forehead. "Don't frown, you'll get wrinkles.. Well, more wrinkles than you already have, that is."

"Scott," I spat, eating a large step backwards and holding my hands up, palms forward. "Don't even _try_ to joke-"

"Oh, why so moody?" he grumbled, raising an eyebrow before falling back onto the bed, which set free an avalanche of protests.

A noise which only could be described as a roar left my lungs. "_Because_!" I yelped. "You're an idiot and the stupid stunt you just pulled, _whatever it was_, could get us both in lots of trouble!"

"Are we dead?" he inquired stupidly from the bed, propping himself up on our two pathetic, slit cushions and crossed his feet at the ankles. He used that irritating _I'm making a point _tone, and this only stoked my irritation. I wanted to hurl something at him, throw a roundhouse, but as he was too far away, settled for a badly aimed kick at the bed. "_No_," I responded, "But-"

"But, but, but," Scott teased, smirking. "Shut up and get over here, I've something to show you."

Less than a few moments later, for the second time that afternoon, my jaw fell slack. Scott lithely tossed the chunk of bread onto my crossed legs opposite him and raised his head to elicit a long, drawn out wink. "Got us some food," he explained to my steadily becoming bewildered expression, and then settled into the rocky headboard of the bed to begin munching on his own section. "You know, you never really appreciate bread until-"

"You risked your life to get us a slice of bread?" I deadpanned, interjecting. Nevertheless, as he opened his mouth to reply, I gingerly plucked the tiny savoury indulgence from my lap and brought it to my lips, swallowing it almost whole with a moan of gratitude. I had been set to scold my friend for doing something so reckless and carrying it out impulsively, but when I began licking the crumbs from the palms of my hands and cherishing every last particle, the lecture fizzled from my mind. "Yup," Scott bobbed his head in a sort of nod, grinning crookedly as he spotted me doing the exact same thing as him- lying down. I had nestled back into a part of the blanket that had rolled into a ball. Though it was sparse, the nourishing food felt warm and content in the pit of my belly, sending pleasant endorphins through my limbs and causing tiger yawns to tiptoe up my throat. "And I'd do it again in a heartbeat," he told me matter-of-factly, and I couldn't help the ghost of a smile as it touched my face. Incite

It was a moment of comfortable resting before either of us made a sound, and it was Scott who did, his strangely gentle voice slicing through the silence of the room (and the corridor, and the kitchen, and the interrogation room) and obliging me to force my heavy eyes open. "You know when someone says they've good news and bad news, and then they ask what you want to hear first?" he wondered, readjusting himself on the bed.

"Yeah?" I responded.

"Well, I have good news and bad news," he mumbled, trailing off into a quiet whistle of voice until I groaned at him to speak louder. "The good news was that I got us food," he disclosed almost reluctantly, and still currently floating in my happy food haze, I was too intoxicated to care about what he'd say next. The content of the bad news. "I didn't ask which you wanted first, 'cause I mean.. you look so skinny and tiny, so I knew you needed the food.." he continued without prompt, paused, and then took a long, calming breath deep into his lungs. "But I _do _have bad news. And I'm going to ask you now." Startling me, he put his hand carefully on the top of my head, giving me time to shuffle away if I wanted to, but the badly disguised dread in his voice suddenly had me on high alert and I didn't dare move. Ever so uncertainly, he began stroking the tips of my bristly hair. "So, Grey," he mumbled. "Do you want the bad news?"

And what could I have said to that? _No_? The bottom of my heart ached for my friend, who's jittery and apprehensive emotions were jumping from his fingertips to my skin and piercing me through. I lay still, quiet, a steadfastly building terror gathering in a cluster in my chest. As mentioned before, Scott relayed to me _nothing _of his day when we were divided. _Ever_. So why now? Why was it of such high importance? Did it concern us? My palms felt moist and sweaty, my throat burningly dry as I choked out, "Tell me," in a voice saturated in doubt.

Scott's fingers stilled in my hair. "He's here," he told me. And upon my lack of response, said it once more, because perhaps I hadn't heard his almost inaudible voice the first time. But I had. I had understood it perfectly, clearly, as if he had spoken the name, and within seconds I was on the brink of hyperventilation.

"Nora, Nora," Scott was at my side, scrabbling to free himself from the tangled blankets of the bed and hauling me then to its side so that I could root my feet on the floor. He forced my head between my knees harshly, planted himself at my side and locked a strong arm around my back. "_Jesus_, Grey," he cursed, whilst my head span uncontrollably and I fought to force air down my throat. "It's okay, calm yourself down."

"He's here?" I rasped, turning to catch a glance of Scott's utterly alarmed expression before being shoved down into my lap once more. "Yes, he's here," Scott assured me after a minute or so, when I had regained my breath and could focus on his face properly without tipping over onto my side. "He's here for the opening night, and I heard that Saxon wants you to waitress."

* * *

><p>By the time the large hand of the clock began grazing nine at night, <em>Sinclair Hotel<em> was teeming with energetic, enthusiastic guests. Men, women, elderly, children, all dressed immaculately in eccentric clothing and shiny, reflective shoes. Balancing a silvery tray topped with sparkly champagne flutes in my arms, I made my way through the oblique crowd, surreptitiously at all times glossing over everyone for that one face, that one head of hair, that one back, and paying little to no consideration to the inquiring guests. From the moment that Aida had allowed herself into our bedroom, dragging me to the bathroom for a bath and ordering me into a silky cream coloured pinafore, I felt as if I had been holding my breath between closed teeth.

The rules tonight were the same as every other night, though much more knots upon knots of nerves clogged my chest. In the elastic of my underwear, I had stashed a small, palm size bag in the hopes of leaving the second I discovered Patch. It was a burning reminder on my skin of what the night ahead would probably entail. Inside, I stuffed all of the money Scott and I had scrounged up, a whole eleven dollars, and my ring. I was sure that once Patch and I found each other, he would take care of any money we needed, but it would be a cold day in hell before I appeared vulnerable again. Being held against my will by Saxon Jeremiah Sinclair had taught me a thing or two about independence.

As for the umpteenth time I passed the towering, large doorway, I found myself squinting out through the door, where I knew Scott would stand in his dark navy suit, unreliable as his appointed position of valet. Hours before, when our stares met across the gelled hairstyles of many others, it felt distinctly as if we were communicating openly, and with a sigh of relief, I didn't feel alone in my task anymore. For the thought of facing my _boyfriend _for the first time in weeks was leaching the colour from my cheeks. I couldn't understand why, but after a near life changing three months apart, I was nervous to see him. Scott had been heavyhearted but obliged to leave me, recuperating from the hyperventilation spell, and so I was more than grateful that I still felt him near albeit we were a crowd apart.

Except this time when I cast a sidelong glance outside, I noticed Scott had warmed up to his non-prisoner, paid valet friends. Laughing a deep belly laugh with them. Other waitresses had been hired to aid me in distributing drinks and food dishes to the guests for tonight, but after warily returning the friendly smile of one, Aida had yanked me aside and _forbidden _any exchanges with anyone unless necessary. Scott had been told the same, but here he was, most definitely enjoying himself as he engaged in a play fight with one man of whom I'd seen around Saxon's house since day one, one of Saxon's close friends as a matter of fact. I felt sick. My stomach churned nauseatingly. Was Scott, for lack of better words, sleeping with the enemy? If he had grown amiable with them, did that mean I was on my own?

"Don't jump to conclusions," a tentative voice in the recesses of my mind cautioned me, but a dour gut feeling overlooked this.

Instead of loitering, and to give my frazzled brain a moment of peace, I twisted away from the view of the doorframe and was swallowed whole hastily by the guests again. There would be time to consider if he had betrayed me or not later. "Can I have one, please?" a short, rounded man questioned, jerking his chin in the direction of the precariously placed flutes of fizzy in my arms. He broke me from my hazy reverie of playing out various scenarios in my mind. Where would I see Patch? Would he smile at me in greeting or grimace at how degenerative, how sickly, I would appear to him? Would he come for me or would I go to him? Would I have to suffer through this night until the very last moment when I'd stumble upon him or would he surprise me really soon and save me from the remainder? And when I or he did, what would I say to him? What _could _I say in words that would express just how much I'd missed him? "Of course," I mumbled, stuttering over my words as I held the tray aloft in front of the man's chest. He took one between nimble fingers and inclined his head in thanks.

The steadily thickening darkness of night only fuelled my apprehension. Within time, my hand began to shake with the effort of gripping the tray and I was forced to put it down on more than one occasion. Aida's observant eyes found mine the second I took a breather, slouched against a back wall. _Get to work_, her irises hissed irately at me, and then returned her stare to the guest she was animatedly chatting to. Haltingly, I pushed away from the smooth wallpapered walls and tripped my way into a room adjacent. It's décor was a heady mixture of rose petal blood and creamy melted chocolate. Hearing a giddy woman gush over the beauty of the room, I had to stifle a complimenting response of my own that bubbled in my chest.

I would _not _admit to liking anything in _Sinclair Hotel_.

I glossed my eyes over the flattering ceiling to floor length windows lining one side of the room, where outside there was a little girl in a bright yellow dress playing hopscotch with a younger girl. Clear of the penetrating gaze of my annoying mentor, I deposited the leaden tray onto a nearby table and wrung my hands. The knuckles of my fingers cracked audibly. The tiny girls outside giggled with one another, and when the shorter one glanced upwards, her eyes met mine through the glass. How strange, I thought sadly, that they were finding such amusement in a place where I felt like I had become acquainted with death's door. She smiled toothily at me, before her look bounced away and fell on something to my right. With a big gasp, she grabbed the sleeve of her friend and tugged, until she too twirled around and followed the small girl's pointed finger. The pair burst into hysterics, creasing at the middle as they scrabbled to grasp each other and stay upright in their laughter. Curious of why, I glanced to the side.

My stomach all but disentangled itself from my body and fell through the floor to the soil beneath. The thrumming of my heart increased to a gallop. I stole a breath, the air in my lungs not sufficient enough to utter a sound. The kids were laughing at a pair of kissing young people, I saw.

I recognised the sooty jacket, strangely of all things, first. He cockily donned it like it had been manufactured solely for him, to be worn and adored as a second skin. Which, knowing him, it probably had been, as the scent of familiar leather and mint had encompassed the material. Next, my eyes found purchase on the back of his head, where the tendrils of black hair curled at the nape of his neck into silky twists. The battered but endearing black motorcycle boots. The expanse of dark, faded jeans. The long fingered coffee coloured hands-

Which were currently encircling the narrow waist of an alluring blonde clothed in a deep purple dress two sizes too small. "If you keep doing that, you're going to kill me," she whinged, allowing him to walk her backwards until she was pressed flat against the wall. "You think?" he murmured in response, bending his head into the crook of her neck to gift her with soft kisses. His voice snared a hook in my heart. I hadn't heard it in so long, not outside the playgrounds of my imagination anyway, and here he was inflicting pleasure on a woman infinitely prettier than me. "Mhm," the girl moaned, arching her chin up and sinking her manicured and pink polished nails into his back. In reply, he snickered quietly against the column of her throat, inching slowly higher until he paused a breath from her slick lips. "Let's test that out, shall we?" he whispered to her, and closed the distance.

I felt sick, and light-headed, and weary, and exhausted, and relieved and disgusted all in one wash of overwhelming feeling. My legs felt boneless and unable to sustain my weight. Seeing him before me was akin to returning home after an awful trip to a saddening country. So close that if only I took three or four steps, I could feel his strong arms. But those were the same arms pulling a spidery legged pale princess closer to him. Drawing appreciative murmurs from her glossy lips. At the same time that solace and joy flushed through my veins, distress and heartache struck me like physical pain.

"Patch?" I squeaked, so quietly it could've been carried away by a breath of the wind. Still wrapped up with his now mistress, he froze like a block of ice, his lips pausing at the hollow of her collarbone. The girl's eyes snapped open, flashing with raw irritation at the interruption and drew on his collars, inviting him back to her mouth. But he ignored her. Rotating fluidly around to face me, Patch's wide, thickly lashed eyes, pierced my own. They concealed a hundred thoughts, none of which I could decipher in my stammering state. My memory hadn't been good to him, I thought as I unabashedly stared. His bone structure was striking, his jaw cleanly cut. His skin was unblemished and smooth. My fingertips ached to reach out to him. But, even though I knew he could see the desire in my eyes as much as I felt it, he held his arm out across the pretty girl, who eyed me angrily with crossed arms. My heart sank as I realised he was shielding her. "Why bother with her," the girl muttered from behind him, flicking her long unnaturally curled hair over her shoulder, "when I'm waiting right here? We have a room, let's go." She braided her fingers through his outstretched hand.

My breath hitched in the back of my throat as I waited, _hoped_, for him to shake her off, shrug out of her hold, but he let her. Even stroked his thumb along the back of her wrist soothingly and said, "Okay, let's go then," over his shoulder to her.

It felt as if he had punched me directly in the chest. I raked in a large breath and fought to hide the tears welling in my eyes. I would not leave him hurt me, I refused to break down in front of him, although he had just crushed every part of my being by accepting her touch. Pleased, the girl smiled a faux cordial smile.

"Patch?" I tried again, my voice growing more and more brittle. I knew I shouldn't have. If I were to read about the situation in a book, I would've called the person in my position a coward for not walking away. Weak for not keeping her heart in one piece by vanishing. But this was the guy I had put all my faith in these past eleven weeks, exchanged all my affections with before and wished to continue once I escaped. I couldn't simply exit without at least trying; my heart nor my head would not allow it.

"Nora," Patch said in a quiet voice, a lopsided, yet handsome, smirk of pure mischief climbing to fill his lips. "It's been awhile."

* * *

><p><strong>Well, well, well! Dum dum dummm :D <strong>

**What'd you think? :) Did you enjoy it? What did you think of Scott's lil adventure for bread? XD And P_aaaaaaa_tch.. who is kissing someone who is not Nora, _hm_... What have you got to say about that? ;) And now I sound like a parrot, so I bid you all goodbye, have a good night!**

**If it's no trouble, I'd love if you could leave a review! :) **

**THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING; you lovely readers are what keep me writing (however bad it may be). :D xxx**


	3. Chapter 3 Part One

_**HAPPY SUMMER! **_

**Hi guys! :D **

**Extremely sorry for the delay. I've been plagued with schoolwork and big State exams (which aren't finished for another week or so, but you know) and have had _no _spare time whatsoever. I'm basically on Summer break now though, so yay! :D I'll definitely make a bigger attempt to write more.**

**This is really only half of Chapter 3, but if I uploaded the full chapter in one go, it'd be too long. So I'll leave Part One up for a few hours/overnight, and put up Part Two fairly soon after. I enjoyed writing this chapter (both parts), so I hope you all enjoy it too! :D **

**Leave me a review, if it's no trouble, and tell me what you think, please! :D xxx Have a great start to Summer. :) **

* * *

><p>The sun had long disappeared from the sky, the moon bringing with it an envelope of menacing, discomforting darkness, yet the party over my head surged on like a celebration of the end of the world. I had learned that the land of which Saxon's house occupied was immensely larger than what I had expected. That it wasn't quickly becoming <em>just <em>Sinclair Hotel, but _Sinclair Estate_. I'd overheard, at the recently established marble floored reception area, that families were booking out apartments, _apartments_, from a labyrinthine cluster of accommodation buildings situated somewhere behind Sinclair Hotel. It baffled me how I could live, or well, be _imprisoned_, in a house for so long and not realise what was going on behind its shadow. What I _had _noticed was the roadway running along the edges of the opulent back garden, but paid no attention to it until now. Obviously, it was the way of access to the pretty apartment blocks which loomed beyond the trees, as the path was now decorated with bright fairy lights and plants. So, people had the choice between paying for an intricately decked out room in the actual house (the hotel) or an equally lavish apartment on the same stretch of land. I'd listened faintly as more than twelve families booked in for extended periods of time; three days, two weeks, four weeks, _two months_. I worried about how long Saxon would keep me on as employment. Luck's grace on my side for once, Aida had dismissed me before I could see Blondie and my boyfriend skip merrily up the carpeted stairs to their suite.

Steadily paling, I scrabbled to the side of the bed just in time to scoop my hair away from my sticky cheeks and be sick into a flimsy dish for the sixth time. Panting, I knew the room would've been sickeningly teeming with the smell of vomit, but through my stuffy nose, I couldn't detect it. Couldn't even see the dish properly through my milky vision and so earnestly prayed that I hadn't missed. I took a shaking slug of water, compliments of caring Toby, and then discarded the cup to the floor, flopped against the pillows. I drifted between the outskirts of sleep and much-too-alert-for-my-state-of-mind for another hour or so.

I had put _so _much hope into one person. One guy. One fallen angel. Every thought, dream, idea and wish in the last eleven weeks had been based around him. Even before being kidnapped, he had been my everything. Bitterly, I considered that I wasn't his anymore, and possibly never was. Maybe it had all been a trick, that he'd had his sights always set on someone higher and simply used me as a pawn in his chess game to get her. Or as a distraction when he was bored. But _no_, it had seemed so real- every time he told me he loved me or even just smiled that _irritating _and _mischievous _smirk that I missed so achingly much. Everything we had been through. Our relationship felt finally solid and safe.. Unbreakable. It _was _real, I believed it more than anything. Yet it hadn't looked like he was faking attraction with the blonde girl.

But, but, but.

I couldn't cave to what a devilish voice was screaming inside the confines of my skull. _He doesn't love you, he likes Blondie, he never loved you_, it hissed on replay. _Did you not see the way he looked at her_? I felt viciously sick again. Slowly, I breathed deeply in through my nose and exhaled heavily through chapped lips.

"Grey?" Scott's voice floated softly from the barred door, cut across by the sharp sound of a bolt clicking and locking tightly behind him. Footsteps sounded on the cement stairs, a door slammed, we were alone.

I would always refuse to give in to my thoughts. _No. _Patch _did _love me and I loved him.

"Grey, can you listen to me a sec?" Extra weight on the bed, pressing down on the edge of it. As a result, my precarious balance fluctuated and I shifted, stifling the overwhelming urge to retch as bile tiptoed up my scorched throat. Scott grabbed my hand, his skin so, so cool against my feverish temperature, and then used his fingertips to brush back hair from my sopping forehead.

Without Patch, would I ever escape? Would he ever _want _to help me leave, now that he had a beautiful girl craving his attention? Living with him?

"Stop thinking so hard," Scott scolded in feathery tone, now smoothing out the frown lines on my face. And then, gnawing on his bottom lip, said, "I know you saw him, Grey. I know you.. You, uh-" Trailing off, he sighed and the breath tickled my cheeks, cooling them down considerably. "I'm seriously not one for girl talk," Scott chuckled nervously, running his free hand haltingly through his hair. After a strained moment of eye wandering, he brought his gaze back to mine. "You don't deserve this, Nora. He shouldn't have.. Kissed- Dated.. He shouldn't have brushed you aside," he took a huge gulp of air, "I'll admit that he's our means of escape, I'm gonna try change that… But just know that you didn't deserve.. well, _that_, and I'm here for you, okay?" Scott concluded hastily in a single short sip of air, and then in a completely out of character gesture, bent down to press his lips to my forehead gently. Which probably disgusted him considering how sweaty I was.

And I didn't care that earlier I had assumed he had befriended our enemies. I didn't care that I had thought he'd abandoned me. Hell, he could do what he wanted! I just didn't _care_, because he was here, letting me grip his hand in my watery grasp and cry so snottily on his shoulder that I soaked his neck, and Patch was _not_. Patch was rendezvousing sweetly with a pale skinned princess. And the thought made another sob crackle through my chest.

_When people say heartache is the worst feeling imaginable_, I mused in a foggy mind, _they really mean it._

* * *

><p>The following day Aida instructed that I leave my hair down after I was finished in the bathroom (another bath in less than twenty four hours!) and she folded me into a light blue pinafore which fell inches above my knees. Around my midsection she tied an apron meticulously. Next, she rooted me at an artistically designed vanity desk and slid a sparkly makeup bag into my hands. I gaped at her for a whole minute before she snapped something about catching flies if I kept my jaw open, and to <em>hurry the hell up <em>with beautifying myself. So, naturally, I jumped up off of my seat and with a flailing heart, obeyed. Inside, the eyeliners, foundations and blushers all sported highly respected brands; brands saturated in thousands of dollars. I applied it all sparingly, concerned that my trembling fingers would break the delicate containers and pots. "Now that we have guests staying," Aida explained, returning for me less than ten minutes later, and informing me that I was to be in charge of the right corridor on the fourth floor (whatever that meant). "Our staff need to look respectable and presentable."

The right corridor of the fourth floor with ten rooms was vacant of souls. The walls were alternating rich beige and similarly coloured wallpaper, lit during the evening by dainty wall lights which resembled water lilies, and the floor was carpeted in cream. Struggling with the weight, I shoved my metal trolley, overloaded with fluffy folded towels and bed sheets, along the ground and stopped at each used room. There, I stripped and made the bed- or bed_s_, depending-, swept the floor, scrubbed the bathroom, refilled and restocked the mini fridge in the kitchen corner, emptied the bin and watered the flowers. It was tiresome and repetitive, reducing my brain to slushy mush, but kept my mind away from bad thoughts. I was way too busy and preoccupied to even _think _about thinking about the hole in my heart.

Thankfully, on my corridor there was only one suite. And it was located at the very end. Aida had disclosed to me that I should be _ever so grateful _that I hadn't gotten the left side of the fourth floor, as its ten rooms were _all _suites, varying in size from small to very, very big. I heaved my trolley on its last journey of the morning to the wide, oak door. In my front pocket was stored a laminated card, one which unlocked every room on my corridor. Not bothering to politely knock, I swiped the card and waited for the green flashing light and a _beep _to sound before shouldering my way in. I didn't bother knocking. Every other room had been empty of people, I assured myself.

A lonely cold seeped into my bones.

"Child!" Aida snapped three hours later, barging into the room Scott and I shared. Startled, I squealed, closing my fist around the clump of precious purple grapes I snatched from one of the rooms that morning. My stomach gurgled audibly in protest. "Why have you not returned to work?" she snarled, snagging me by the collar and all but dragging me up the cement steps without hesitation. "Lunchtime, you see to the guests on your corridor!"

The ache in the pit of my stomach was akin to a small, growing fire as I collected the now empty trays and pots and plates and bowls of nourishing, exquisite food, cooked by an honoured foreign chef, from the nine rooms on my corridor. Eventually, I reached the tenth. But by then tears were clouding my vision and exhaustion leaking its venomous way into my system. I was just _too _tired, _too _famished, _too _empty. My fingers and wrists felt bruised and broken as I kneaded against the door gently, before nudging it open with the toe of my shoe and slipping inside. "Here to collect your plates," I mumbled in a thick voice, my lungs hiccupping in their efforts to hold off a sob, or a shriek, I didn't know which.

I noticed my mistake almost the second I felt the atmosphere of the elaborate, bright suite.

She was perched on a red leather stool beside the granite counter in the kitchen, which was adjacent to a wide tiled hallway. One leg tucked beneath her slim frame, another one dangling. Her toenails glittered with bright cerise varnish. Upon the sound of my entrance, she twisted around and leant her elbow against the back of the stool. She cupped her chin as a sleazy smile spread across her face. "Good afternoon, _maid_," she greeted, snickering beneath her breath as I tensed.

He was _here_. I knew it.

Evidence presented itself as she expertly slid off of the stool, smoothing healthy blonde locks over her shoulder, and showed how she wore nothing but a button down black shirt.

_Blondie_.

Maybe luck would favour me again today as it had last night and ensure that he would be absent (or I don't know, _dying_?) while I quickly gathered what I needed?

"Your plates," I insisted, grinding my teeth to a near powder. "I'm here to collect your plates." Still smiling widely, Blondie slowly beckoned me over with a crooked finger, and then jerked her chin in the direction of the countertop. "They're over there," she told me, blue eyes twinkling with amusement as I trudged solemnly across the reflective tiles, feeling reduced to a smudge of annoying dirt on the floor, and made my way into the kitchen. The smell of sugary crepes laced in melted chocolate, orange juice, apple juice, a bowl of fresh fruit, croissants and a plate of creamy cakes assaulted my senses. Clouded my mind to the brim with overpowering, _delicious _scents so unfamiliar and strange to me now that I staggered back a step, before catching myself and risking another breath. If it hadn't been Blondie in the room with me, and the stink of her fruity perfume, I probably would've thrown caution to the wind and divulged in the meal lain out so carefully. She had barely made a dent in a couple of strawberries, and they expected me to throw it _all _away! But I couldn't cave, not while I felt her beady eyes on me, condescending without words. Shamed at my reaction, I snuck a glance through my eyelashes at her, and saw that she was snickering silently. "Patch!" she laughed, directing her shout at one of the bedrooms. "Come see this!"

I wanted to stand my ground but was unable to scrounge up enough energy in my body to do so. Instead, I settled for pinning her with a narrow, acidic glare.

"Charlene, do you _mind_? What're you," a well aimed kick reverberated through the wood of one of the doors, "_screaming _about?" It flew back on its soundless hinges and I caught sight of lightly browned hands smoothly buckling the top button of dark jeans. _Oh, God, shoot me now, _I thought, gulping.

Preceding the further greedy search of my eyes, a hot blush worked its way from the base of my neck to flood my cheeks and I ducked my head low, sprightly beginning to stack the dirty plates so that I could leave. It was mortifying and demeaning that his presence still had me swooning, though he possessed the spear that had spiked a hole in my heart. Despite his betrayal, I was powerless to kill the jitters in my belly (which were definitely desire but I told myself that I wasn't sure if they were nerves, repressed tears or sickness), and struggled to quell the want to raise my head and look at him.

One look to convey to him that I would never, ever give him another chance. That I had realised his game; that I was only a piece of it. One look to put an end to every affectionate feeling I'd ever had for him. Could I manage it?

"_Look _at the poor maid," Blondie giggled on obnoxiously, filling the dumbfounded silence. Patch hadn't said anything and for that I was faintly grateful. "I feel so sorry that she's so skinny, she almost ate our _leftovers_!" I doubted this, secretly cocking an eyebrow, she didn't sound apologetic in the least. I braced the neat stack of plates on my hip, but was saddened to realise I'd have to make more than one trip. "I wonder why they hired _her_?" Blondie continued, her laughter still thick in my ears. I marched past with a departure solely in mind.

And then he abruptly spoke, his silky voice like satin fingers wrapping around me confidently from behind. It carried the cocky air of someone who knew they were going to get what they wanted. "Come back in a second," he ordered, effectively torching Blondie's giggling, and for some unknown reason I knew he was talking to me without needing to glance back over my shoulder. As I twisted the brass door handle, Blondie let free a grunt of indignation which sounded like a piglet's complaint. "_Excuse _me?" she bit out, her tone dramatically altered compared to less than five seconds before. "Why would you want to-"

"Shut up, Charlene."

"_What_-"

I dumped the dishes into my trolley, wiped my hands on the towel slung over the its push bar and headed back inside the suite without requesting permission.

Patch had his arms secured around Blondie, the top of her head beneath his chin as she returned the adoring gesture without delay. Stuffy air hitched in my throat, chokingly dry. Graciously, a word never used in reference to me unless to point out my lack thereof, she leant away from his embrace and brought both of her hands to the sides of his face. He allowed her to pull him down to her mouth. I felt sick, frozen to the spot with a cold bead of sweat running down my spine. "Sorry," he said against her lips, softly and privately, as if I wasn't there fighting to take the last few steps towards them, snatch the dishes and flee. "I'm sorry for shouting." He kissed her, tangling a strand of her yellowy hair around his fingertip. "Now, go get ready, we're leaving in an hour, remember?" As he peeled himself from her stringy arms, she sighed blissfully and nodded in acceptance. "Okay," she whispered obediently, pressing her lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss before twirling and slinking off in the direction of the room Patch had appeared from.

I think it was about then that my brain remembered that it had a duty and regained consciousness. _Walk_, it directed in an army sergeant voice towards my swelling ankles, and this time they listened, dumbly fumbling a step forward. Then another. Two more. I flinched at the coolness of the worktop on my palms, my fingers quivering as they sought the edges of the final cluster of plates. I could feel the bore of his eyes on my every movement, and was torn between spinning around and hurling one of the ceramic bowls at his handsome face, buckling at the knees right there and sobbing into the tiles of the floor unendingly, or, like Scott and I had discussed, holding my head high and carrying out my job with sureness.

Not that I was proud or happy in my situation, but in _his _company, I hoped to appear so. I wouldn't show how he'd broken my spirit.

And I was set on doing exactly that until he opened his mouth and addressed me for the second time.

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><p><strong><em>Ta da!<em> ... What'd you think? **

**Poor Nora. I feel mean making her work like a dog. Sigh. But, things shall change soon! **

**_Please_ leave me a message/review to tell me what you think, if you can! I love hearing your thoughts and ideas about the story, 'cause it's for you guys that I write. :D **

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	4. Chapter 3 Part Two

**Hey! As promised, Part Two of Chapter 3. **

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**Thanks!**

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><p>"Nora, can you sit down for a minute?" was all he sighed, but it was enough to set fire to a swarm of hot bees in my belly. He had stepped into his motorcycle boots, I realised, his footfalls sounded leaden as he dared to smother the distance between us. Untrusting of my voice box, which was tingling in the depths of my throat, I simply shook my head. It was an adamant gesture, and I knew he understood. Yet he had the audacity to continue and approached me now with a much more velvety tone of voice, one which reached into my memories and tugged on them with little fingers. "Angel, sit down," he instructed, gesturing loosely to the stool which Blondie had recently occupied.<p>

The use of the endearment he'd composed for me all of those many months ago struck a chord in my chest. And not a pleased one. With a haste that startled me, I felt my blood battle to climb to boiling point. I twisted around, shoes rooted stubbornly and suddenly I faced him before my brain had time to refuse. The knuckles of my hands bleached snowy as I gripped a plate between my fingers and seethed. "Don't you _dare_," I began, my voice not more than a hushed tone. "Call me that again. _Ever_."

Patch canted his head to the right a fraction and observed me with knowing eyes. "Why not?" he wondered, lifting a shoulder and letting it drop. "You used to like it." He unabashedly tiptoed his gaze along my entire frame and drank in my appearance. At this stage, I was dragging in raggedy pants of breath and overlooking the ache in my hand as I squeezed the dish even tighter.

How could he even look at me after what he'd done? The china plate felt like a lump of malleable clay in my hands. I was completely oblivious to how a small crack was beginning to form in its designed edge. Why did he have to _stay_? Was it a source of amusement for him to linger here with Blondie just to splinter my heart further? Above my laboured breathing and pumping blood, Patch's voice was nonexistent. I could only stare directly into his eyes with a ferocity that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

The plate split into two jagged pieces and crashed to the floor.

Cutting across whatever sly thing Patch was saying, the sound was as loud throughout the room as a bullet. I flinched. As I jerked backwards a step in fright, the hem of my pinafore snagged on one of the stools, sending it into a tip forwards until it clanged against the countertop. A tall stack of plates wobbled dangerously, far too close to the edge for my liking. They leaned, leaned, leaned… And fell. The explosion of ceramic material smashing from a height onto marble tiles rose to such decibels that I instinctively clamped my hands over my ears and let free a little shriek. "_Oh_!" It was also autopilot that had me clumsily sinking to my knees to gather the chopped plates, chagrin flaming in my cheeks in embarrassment, whilst a hissed string of cuss words trickled from my lips. Six minutes later, the broken shards of imported china coated the countertop, now dusty with crushed particles, and I stood.

"Now that.." Patch materialised at my side, a strong overwhelming warmth emanating from his skin, and breathed in deeply. "Is not something that one see's everyday," he finished, and a smirk tipped to fill his lips. The tiniest indentation of a dimple showed on his left cheek when he smiled, I noticed from the close proximity. _A sign of beauty_, I vaguely remembered from somewhere and boy, was it true when used in reference to this guy. His face was so intriguing, alike to one that someone would be happy to study all day long. Though I'd never admit it. Up this close his eyelashes looked inkier than the feathers of a raven. His hair messy and dishevelled from sleep and calling to my fingertips, asking me to brush the strands back from his forehead and bring them back to a semblance of normality. However, I mused, Patch was most definitely extraordinary and a conforming haircut wouldn't nor couldn't disguise that.

And also I couldn't hover there, awkwardly switching my weight from foot to foot and memorise every single part of him could I? No matter how much I wanted to. I couldn't, because there was something.. Something I was forgetting.. Something that had been foremost in the centre of my mind for many hours until he crept closer in that completely silent and surprising way of his and his body heat stretched out to warm my cold skin.

The ghost of a triumphant sparkle crossed his features. Tiny laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes as he repressed an upturn of his lips, only adding to the allure of his coffee coloured skin and thus entire appearance.

I couldn't.. I shouldn't.. Could I?

"No, _really _shouldn't," I breathed, talking aloud unbeknownst to myself. Yet ever so slightly I turned and situated my body so that I was in line with him, the top of my head reaching the tip of his nose. He was _so _warm.. Even from two or three steps of distance. Could I imagine what would happen if I could just build up the courage to close it? After weeks and weeks of icy and frosty conditions in our bunker and the same sensation constantly in my chest, it was difficult to comprehend what a relief it would be. How good being _held _would simply be.

Could I do it though? There was that niggling annoying thought in the back of my mind, struggling to free itself and remind me of what I was stupidly forgetting..

Patch decided to take the decision into his own hands. With a brightening and simultaneously growing more sultry stare, he reached around to the nape of my neck, holding my eyes, and pulled the elastic from the tail of the braid in my hair. He had always preferred it when the wild curls fell around my shoulders. As he retracted his hand, his fingertips lightly grazed the skin of my neck, my shoulder and stopped at my collarbone. His touch sent jitters through my body; I almost lurched in the need to curl my arms around him and let his warmth seep through my pores and into my frozen bones. "Angel," he said, his daring eyes finally breaking from mine and glancing down to where his hand was. I liked how he said the name. Swallowing, I waited for him to continue talking. I knew it was probable that he could hear my frantic heartbeat thrumming behind my ribcage, threatening to break through, but I failed to care. So maybe it wasn't cuddling just yet, but thankfully he had skipped any uncomfortable questions that could've blocked our way. He tilted forward and a wave of heat hit me so much like a physical force that I stumbled backwards a centimetre in retreat. Patch wasted no time in looping his arm around my waist, tugging me flush against his bare chest and leaning into the crook of my neck. I tensed in anticipation of a kiss, pressing closer, all thoughts of where his soft lips had been just minutes before with Blondie already evaporated. My hands balled together into fists at my sides. "You're bleeding," he whispered, and effectively killed the reuniting moment as I took notice of a dull stinging pain on the inside of my knee.

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><p><em><strong>Patch's Point of View<strong>_

"Just-"

Nora clutched the soft cloth between her hands feverishly, grunting instead of really enunciating her words.

"Get-"

Tipping forward, she pressed her forehead into the cloth and clenched her jaw in frustration.

"It-"

Her breath whistled as she groaned through shut teeth once more and wriggled her legs uncomfortably.

"Over-"

She raised her head once more and met my gaze with poignant anger, thin eyebrows arching high above her shattering silver eyes irately.

"With."

Stifling yet another smirk, as she had quite literally shouted her displeasure at the sight of them, I pressed another cloth, damp with antiseptic liquid which was thick in our noses, to the long cut on the inside of her leg. It ran from just above her kneecap to just below, and was in the most awkward of positions because every time she bent her leg whether to walk or move or sit or whatever, a fresh tear of blood trickled from the wound.

Her fingernails dug into my shoulder as she gnawed painfully at her bottom lip and swallowed a howl of agony. The blood had drained from her usually rosy cheeks, reducing them to a chalky white. She licked her lips and bowed her head, squeezing tighter to me as she muttered something about how I was probably being an enemy and pouring acid or something onto her injury. I pretended not to notice as she pretended not to have said it. "Almost there," I told her, quickly cleaning the length of the wound once more gently- gently as her skin was crimson and raw.

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><p><strong>Nora's Point of View<strong>

Disinfecting, tying plastic stitches onto and bandaging the stupid cut on my leg ate up a full hour of time. A sixty minute time frame that I would much rather have not spent chewing a hole through my lip in pain or scrabbling for the naked skin of his shoulder to hold. He was careful when scooping me into his arms and gripping my hips to hoist me onto the countertop, where I dangled my legs over the edge. He had been considerate with his first-aid, teasing and joking with me to take my attention away from the pain.

But it didn't change anything.

I had been ridiculously naïve to fall for his charming ways and almost clamber into his lap. I should've known that in his presence all morals would fly out the window- he was manipulative and that was that. My past with Patch would just have to be disentangled from my present and surely nonexistent in my future.

"Finished," he said, expertly fastening transparent tape to a section of the bandage to hold it in place. He showed me his hand, offering to help me off of the high countertop but I quickly raised my eyebrows in obvious disbelief, shaking my head. "So stubborn," Patch muttered, destroying my means of escape by sidestepping and blocking as I scooted around him to slide down. "Why so stubborn?" he inquired, lifting his gaze to meet my eyes. My attempts to manoeuvre around him were futile, and finally I caved and exhaled an elongated sigh of frustration. My breath blew the strands of hair laying on his forehead. Patch bit back a breath of laughter. Without gaining permission to do so, he carefully but firmly pushed my knees to the side and stepped between them, flattening his palms to the countertop on either side of my legs.

I was suddenly drained. From the stupidly tiring maid job, from spending the night before crying, from being wracked emotionally. So for these reasons, I only managed to clamp a restraining hand on his shoulder and make a feeble attempt to push him back a step. Of course he ignored this as if my strength was less than a brush of wind. "Let me down," I ordered, heaving a sigh. "I want to go now. You can't keep me here." I felt Patch's fingers catch my chin and force my head to move so that I was looking up into his face. His eyes were full of cautiously concealed thoughts, abruptly leaching the teasing air surrounding him of energy until it was thick with unspoken things. He parted his lips once, twice, three times, considering how to phrase whatever he was trying to say. "You broke me," I interrupted, when he finally made a sound, and then I shoved him more forcefully away and slid down off of the counter.

"I'm not easily fixable," I told him. His answering smirk said _I beg to differ _but didn't fully touch his eyes. Scoffing, I turned to leave, but was hindered by a shooting pain in my leg. Groaning, I grappled for the edge of the countertop for support. Instead I found Patch's forearm. "I can fix you," he smugly stated, not a hint of doubt in his voice as he spun me around. I sourly noted how his aura was once again intact. Strange how resilient and fast he was at that. "You just need to let me." I felt the heat of his hand on the small of my back, pulling me closer as the other wound a wayward curl around the tip of his finger. Things were moving too fast- I wanted to leave! "I don't regret what you saw with Charlene and I," he said, moulding his hand to the side of my face. I winced at that. "There are _reasons _for it," he continued. "Things that I can't tell you right now. Not until we're completely alone." He cocked a suggestive eyebrow, a teasing smile crawling across his cheeks. The pad of his thumb grazed my jaw line softly. "So until then.." Abruptly, he tilted my face farther and leant forward to press his lips to mine. An unintentional breath of encouragement left my throat at the surprise contact. I quickly allowed him more access. My greedy fingers found purchase in the back of his head, winding through his silky hair as he deepened the kiss. He lopsidedly grinned against my lips, slipping his fingertips beneath the hem of my t-shirt and gripping my hips to hoist me back onto the countertop once more. And unlike earlier, I helped him this time. My hands knotted together at the back of his neck as I broke away for air, swallowing yet another embarrassing moan. He gave me a short second to breathe, before tugging me forward again and catching my lips with a hunger that set alight a fire in the pit of my belly. His hands burned the skin of my waist, and I gulped as they began inching slowly further up beneath the hem of my clothes. Only _once_, months ago, had I let down every single barrier to Patch, and getting there had been a long journey. And though he had so recently snapped my heart in his hands, I was ready to let down all of the walls for him again. "Patch," I gasped, tearing away again to tell him what I was thinking. He paused, fire dancing brightly in his eyes as he elicited a yelp of surprise from me by brushing his hands down my thighs. "Yes?" he replied, blinking innocently at me. His eyes were obsidian charcoal and beckoned to me to be consumed whole by them. I swallowed. "I think-"

"Oh, _Paatch_!" came a sing-song voice from behind one of the doors of the suite. Blondie. Charlene. Both Patch and I froze at the same time, and once I had thawed, I began desperately hoping that he would pick me over Blondie. I felt like crossing my fingers to make use of any luck possible. Patch's expression grew stricken for a moment as he read the thoughts in my eyes with ease. He covered it quickly though, and began gently untangling himself from my chokehold limbs. "I'll tell you more later," he promised in a strained whisper, lifting me from the countertop. "If you're requested for work tonight, say yes. I'll find you there."

"Patch?" Blondie called out, her voice becoming clearer as she neared. "What time do we have to go?"

Patch grabbed my hand and pulled me over the marble tiles to the door. He hauled it open roughly, obviously undecided as he glanced between me and the empty hallway over and over. Suddenly, he gripped my face and placed a protective, lingering kiss on my mouth. "Keep the bandage dry," he advised, speaking against my lips. "I'll see you soon." And with that, he pushed me out of the room and closed and locked the door before I had time to utter a single word of response.

I left the trolley outside of their door, overflowing with plates and dishes but barren of anything from the only suite on the right corridor of the fourth floor, and returned to my room more confused than I had ever been in my entire life.

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><p><strong>SO.. what did you think? :) Do you like Patch again? What is Nora gonna do now..?<strong>

**Leave me a review/message if it's no trouble and tell me what you thought? :D xx**

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	5. Chapter 4

**Hey! All well? Hope you're all enjoying the last few weeks of Summer. :) **

**Here's chapter 4! (Technically chapter 5 according to Fanfic, but because I broke up chapter 3 into two parts..) :D **

**I have the next party completely written, so it'll be up shortly. I was going to put it up with this chapter, but it was 11 pages on Works.. so.. A bit too big, haha! I get carried away with writing. **

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**Anyways, enjoy reading! :) xx Remember to tell me what you think ;)**

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><p>"Scott," I said.<p>

He quickly turned, the back of his shiny blonde hair now clear in the mirror that he had just been admiring himself in. "Yep?" he responded.

"What the _hell _are you doing?" I demanded.

His eyes brightened to glow a glossy gold. In an exaggerated motion, he brushed his hand along the length of his torso. A charcoal suit jacket, sparkling with black buttons, fit him snugly from his shoulders to his waist. Its lapels, folded lovingly against his chest, were made of a sleek, polished fabric. A square breast pocket held a silky white handkerchief. He wore a button down shirt of the same creamy material, and a narrow tie lay around his shoulders, untied. His matching trousers, as black as an ominous night sky, were expertly creased and straight. Gaping, I unabashedly ran my gaze along his entire frame, from the tips of his hair to the toes of his polished, black shoes. "Do I look good?" he wondered, an amused grin threatening to tweak the corners of his lips. He made a show of turning around very slowly. "Or do I look _good_?"

I blew a tangled curl up off of my forehead, and met his gaze suspiciously. "You look like you're going to a funeral," I blurted without preamble. I closed the distance between us and examined his new wardrobe choice again, tentatively touching the velvety material of his jacket. "A really rich, fat guy."

As if I was an irritating bee, Scott swatted my hand away and slipped a step backwards. But despite his attempts to, he was sorely unable to mask the breath of laughter that my statement elicited from him. "Why fat?" he questioned, returning to face his reflection in the mirror. He met my eyes through this, only momentarily breaking contact to pluck the ends of the tie from each of his shoulders and make a painstaking attempt at tying them together. "Because fat guys have big funerals," I answered. "Duh."

"That makes no sense-"

"You make no sense-"

"Hey, shut up!"

"No, you shut-"

"Will you do this?" Scott heaved a sigh, shoulders dramatically sagging as he hung his head in mock shame. His hands reached backwards until he found purchase on my wrist and he yanked me forward to his side. "I can't do it," he muttered, mashing the words together until they came out sounding like one complicated muffle. I pried his fingers from where they were looped around my wrist. "What?" I inquired, cocking a dubious eyebrow as he began tugging on the cornered ends of the tie. Twice he repeated the sentence until I heard, but nonetheless I couldn't resist taking a jab at him- an opportunity that wasn't likely to arise soon enough again. "You want me to do _what_?" I drawled, stifling the smile full of amusement that crept up my throat.

"I want you to do the damn tie."

"Excuse me, I didn't quite-"

"_Please_, Grey?"

"No problem," I chirped, nodding my head overenthusiastically. Scott pulled a leering face as I grabbed the tie, and within seconds looped, swooped and pulled it into shape. "Done!" I announced, and just as I began stepping away, I was utterly surprised to feel Scott's fingers cup my chin. His grip was firm, and he forced me to look upwards at him. His gaze was nothing less than penetrating, and I suddenly felt like a sheet of easily readable glass in front of him. "Tell me," he said in a quiet voice.

Shamefully, for a short moment I started thinking that he wanted a love proclamation from me, and so blushing a deep beetroot red, I tried to wriggle away. _Oh god! _He held fast, and as I shyly met his gaze once more, I was pierced by the burning apprehension in his eyes. It skewered the idea of his non-platonic appreciation of my company, and this time my cheeks flamed brighter with acute embarrassment. "I was hoping you'd just tell me after awhile," Scott continued, as I silently writhed in embarrassment. "But you didn't. So I'm asking. Grey, _tell _me what happened, please."

And that was unexpected. I hadn't been aware of how keenly Scott was able to read me.

"Okay," I breathed after a moment, a teardrop of defeat trickling into my veins. I hadn't wanted to tell him- the content of this whole afternoon felt strangely personal. Private. And then guilt decided it was time to sink its razor sharp teeth into my skin, as I remembered that Scott too was a prisoner here. Anything new that happened in my day, he deserved to know of also. Noiselessly, I slumped onto the bench before the cracked vanity desk, and rested my elbows on top of my tired knees. "It's a long story," I mumbled, but Scott encouraged me to tell him anyway, and so I gave him a short, condensed version.

As I finished, Scott studied me with an obviously analysing glare. I waited, smoothing the material of my skirt, for him to respond. Slowly he tilted his head to the side. And then in a voice as even and businesslike as ever, said, "Does your boyfriend happen to be bipolar, Nora?"

A watery sounding breath of laughter broke my closed lips.

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><p>My heart thudded anxiously as I ducked under Saxon's arm and slid onto the leathery, smooth seating. Sliding over to create room for his broad but muscled frame, my damp palms clung to the creamy upholstery. He dropped gracefully into the limousine's seat next to me.<p>

I held back an agitated, cold shudder as I felt the black material of his pants press into the bare skin of my legs. Automatically I bit down on my lower lip to repress the obviously negative reactions his unwanted proximity drew. I wasn't in the mood to receive a backhanded insult from him. Breathing deeply, overlooking the poignant stench of his aftershave, I knitted my fingers together in my lap and maintained a surprising silence. "Young Nora," he addressed me in a soft murmur moments later. A cold flush trickled into my veins as he lifted an unblemished hand and lay it over mine atop the flat of my thigh. "You are looking particularly.. _ravishing_ this evening." He swept the pad of his thumb across the back of my palm.

"Thanks," I responded hollowly, swallowing through the lump in my throat. My skin tingled awfully where he touched me, pleading with me to pull away. Stubbornly, I locked my joints and forbid them from moving. I _had_ to be completely, one hundred percent, wholly, _entirely _obedient if I wanted to survive the night without him turning drastically on me.

After an age and a day had passed, he gave up on waiting for further chit-chat on my part. Clearing his throat, he removed his hand and barked at the driver to hurry on.

The interior of the building that Saxon dragged me into was astonishing. Sleek black floors, black walls lit up by arrays of flickering, multicoloured lights and signs, imposing stone statues of snake-tongued demons and blocks of cloudy smoke-tinged glass for walls. Securing my hand in the crook of his overheated arm, he steered us in the direction of a pair of huge, onyx doors, barricaded by two, burly security men. Intimidating by stature and silence, they were as still as ancient boulders on either side of the doors. As we grew nearer, I fought the instinct to shrink away from their sunglass-shrouded gazes. "Boys," Saxon greeted quietly, snapping his wrist in a curt wave. The security men remained voiceless. But inclining their heads almost reverentially in unison, they gripped the door handles and pulled them open to allow us inside.

Music exploded in my ears. So abrupt and loud that I cringed, fumbling backwards a step. Saxon held an unyielding grasp on my arm. Tugging me upright, he pulled my body closer and bent towards my ear. "Calm down, Nora," he chuckled, his breath tickling the skin of my neck. "It's just a bit of music for us VIP's."

I was already squirming in discomfort over the fact that he was calling me by my actual name and not _maid_. Now he was grouping me as a _VIP _along with his irate, scheming friends? The awful, burning of my stomach muscles as they tensed in agitation was more fully justified.

Sharp gaze glossing around the crowd in the room, Saxon hastily steered us in the direction of a moderately sized, black leather seated booth on the far wall. Resigned, I allowed him to drag me with him as we weaved in and out through sweaty, tightly packed bodies, all clustered together in the heart of the room on a vibrating dance floor. He pushed me down into the booth's couch first, silkily sliding into the spot next to me. I wasn't sure if he'd done it purposely, but he'd knifed my easiest escape route. The most likely case was that it had been intentional. Using my waterfall hair as a shield, I cast him an inconspicuous look from beneath my eyelashes, hoping his slate gaze wouldn't find mine.

It didn't.

A strange crease I'd never laid eyes on before dented the skin between his eyes, brows slanting downward in concentration. One hand effortlessly readjusted the tie snugly pressed against his adam's apple, and the other wrapped sternly around a glass of whiskey that I hadn't noticed a waiter place before him. His narrowed eyes bore holes into each and every person of the room as he drank in their exteriors and analysed. Shock ran coolly through my bloodstream. He almost looked _strained_. Worried.

"Staring is impolite, did you know that?" he abruptly murmured.

I froze. Shoulders seizing up in fright, I dropped my eyes from his calculating expression instantly and swept it along the table. "Sorry," I said regretfully, shaking my head lightly so my hair fell around my face. My cheeks bloomed scarlet, rivalling the twin pair of roses sitting in the tiny frosted vase in the centre of the tablecloth.

"Don't apologise, Nora," he responded airily. "You shouldn't apologise when you do not truly mean it."

Without much thought, I left blatant, terribly uncomfortable silence tail that. Saxon thankfully had no objections, and was content to continue studying the perspiring dancing-monkeys of the room unnervingly and sipping at his amber coloured drink. Professionally dressed waiters sporting disarming smiles and winks dipped in and out of the booth, unendingly supplying us with cut-glass shots of various alcohols. All of which remained icily untouched on the shiny tabletop at my fingers, whereas approximately forty five minutes into the deathly silence, Saxon boasted nine drained glasses. I idly wondered how he wasn't slurring his occasional words to the staff, or why his fingers didn't shake as he lifted the drinks to his readily parted lips. He downed as much and poisoned his system in the same manner every night I served him and his guests back at his home, but his eleven or twelve hefty gulps of vodka, whiskey or gin were steadily spaced out over a four or five hour pocket of time.

And then I sourly thought, _simply because he's Saxon Jeremiah Sinclair_,and that was more than enough reason.

I felt more than saw Saxon's reaction when he found purchase on a certain group of faces. Suddenly, the humid air of the booth tensed in anticipation, becoming about as flexible as a snippet of stiff cardboard. Cautiously, my eyes flickered from the young girl and her boyfriend I'd been mournfully ogling, as they lingered in one of the corners, laughing hysterically at each others jokes and cutting each other's sentences off with lustful kisses, and glanced up to my only company in the booth. The ghost of a grim smile bent Saxon's lips as he pressed the rim of his glass to his mouth, tipped it back and swallowed the alcohol in one.

"I have only one rule for you this evening, Nora, and it is vitally important," he calmly whispered to me beneath his breath, leaning down so that I could hear him clearly. "It is that you do not speak at all unless spoken to first."

I gulped. Invisible, frosty fangs sank into my skin and shot vials of ice into my blood. Warily, I raised my tentative eyes from the table and, following Saxon's line of vision, focused on the group he'd noticed.

Two thirty to forty year old men dressed in twin black suits brought up the head of the gang. The swaying partygoers swiftly brushed aside and parted like the red sea as they marched across the room, eyes firmly fixated on our table. Their demeanour and rock-hard expressions spoke legions of their ruthless personalities, not to mention the unrelenting strength of their bodies which was obvious in the way that they sauntered across the room. Horribly so, they were like carbon copies of Saxon, the only difference was that one sported curly copper hair and the other tousled chocolate. I wanted to wither up like a dried flower and be blown away by a gust of wind. Especially when the copper-haired man stepped to the side briefly to round a cheering, spinning woman, disgusted, and my eyes cut through the group to its recesses.

_Scott_! He slotted perfectly into the clan with his other suited companions, but by a long mile looked the best in his skin. Stride oozing liquid confidence, his lips twisted up into an entertained smirk. Chest constricting, my heart leapt with astonishment as I ran my eyes hastily over his form, deciphering that he was physically okay. Not bleeding from anywhere. Limbs all intact. But his eyes were not on me in return. Mirth sparkling in his expression, he glanced to the side, and _so help me_, Blondie stared back at him with a beguiling grin.

"Friends," Saxon cordially greeted as they came to a halt before the booth. Cupping an unwanted hand around my elbow discreetly from the others' gazes, he drew to a stand, pulling me clumsily with him, and inclined his head to the group. "Please, have a seat," he encouraged after a moment of their muttered greetings. He swept a hand in front of his torso and gestured to the glasses on the table, both empty and brimming. "There is more than enough to go around."

Scott appeared unfazed by my presence, gifting me with a pretty, white smile as he dropped into the booth and shimmied along the leather until he reached my side. Admittedly, the familiarly bright atmosphere he brought with him eased my agitation greatly. I was glad to not be alone tonight. The pair of rattling males ate up the space beside him, and daintily bringing herself to a sit at the end, directly opposite Saxon, was Charlene. Begrudgingly I admitted to myself that she looked exceptionally sensational, her long, slender figure wrapped in a bright crimson dress that ended stylishly diagonal below one of her knees. She had slicked her creamy blonde hair back into a high ponytail, two delicate, curled strands intentionally left hanging at her temples and cheeks. The burgundy lipstick painted onto her full lips contrasted dramatically with the elegantly pale pallor of her throat, shoulders, collarbones and arms.

Charlene, even her _name _was attractive, had dressed with the aim to impress and entice. Whereas I, dressed unwillingly in a frothy, flowing milky white dress who's uneven hemline fell before my knees, felt frumpy and unrefined in comparison. Aida had forced me into the soft, cotton clothing and had paired the ensemble with flat black shoes. "There'll be no dancing for you," she had hissed, and I'd gulped, nodding obediently at her wishes. At least she had allowed me to avail of the luxurious bathroom facilities, and she'd approved of leaving my curls tumble freely over my shoulders, untamed and dishevelled.

I could see why Patch would find Charlene extensively more alluring than me. The bitter thought had my stomach in agitated knots, my mouth dry, and with more than a full spoonful of stiff effort, I had to remind myself that Patch had promised to find me here tonight.

All I had to do was get away.

"And this is the one?" the copper-haired man inquired, jerking his chin in my direction. I'd tuned out of the quiet conversation entirely, but now refocused my attention on it.

"The one and only," Saxon replied instantly, a smile snaking its way onto his face. He placed his glass down onto the table and then gestured lightly to me. "As I've told you, rest assured. I think we've gotten it right this time."

Cringing, I gnawed worriedly on my bottom lip as the two men raked their gazes over me unabashedly. Their expressions and eyes remained starkly businesslike, but I still didn't appreciate the attention.

"Hank Millar?" the brown haired man abruptly questioned, tearing his eyes from my face and glancing at Saxon. He cocked a suspicious eyebrow, slowly running his fingertip in a circle on the table around his half-full glass of whiskey.

"She doesn't resemble him in any way," copper-haired added sceptically.

I leapt off of the leather seat as Saxon raised a hand without warning, pointedly brushing my head with a gentle movement. "Look at her hair," he said, smiling indulgently at the men. With ease, he ran glossy, curled strands through his fingers, examining them in the florescent light.

"It's brown," the chocolate haired man deadpanned. Charlene snickered.

The copper haired man leaned forward with his elbows planted on the table, resting his chin in one of his palms. "Not entirely, no," he disagreed. "It's red-brown."

"And Millar's other daughter?" Saxon queried. His smile spoke intelligently further, indicating that he was about to solidify a point of his.

"Strawberry blonde," copper haired answered in a considering tone, nodding slowly.

"Red," Saxon confirmed pleasantly, smiling as he dropped his hand from my curls and returned it to fingering his glass.

Their conversation overwhelmed me. Fear thrummed loudly in my temples, stealing my voice and bringing every hair on my body to a frightened stand. What did any of this have to do with my biological father? I knew he and I were on dramatically bad terms, but I didn't think he'd toss me into a trap like this. Or did I? What part of the story did these men play, and why, why, _why _were they interested in me?

I heard myself hyperventilating, and was grateful for a friendly, familiar hand on my knee.

Pretending to have dropped something beneath the table, Scott soothingly squeezed my leg beneath the velvety draped cover of the tablecloth and bent forward as if to retrieve the item. "Shh, Grey, calm down," he whispered hurriedly. I reached down, pried his fingers from my skin and held them silently as a way of assuring him that I was okay. Even if I wasn't.

"You're alright," he continued quietly after a moment. The others' conversation hummed on around us as they discussed various things that I didn't want to hear, bright and intense gazes flickering to me every so often and injecting me with nausea. "I won't let them hurt you, Grey, but you have to trust me. I'm going to let go of your hand and you're going to count to one hundred _slowly _and then say you have to pee. I'm going to offer to bring you to the bathroom, and they're going to say yes."

I levelled my breathing with concentration. In through my nose, slowly out through my mouth.

"Do you understand?" Scott's stature tightened as he gripped onto something beneath the table. "Blink twice right now if you do."

I blinked. Twice.

Scott straightened. Withdrawing his hand from beneath the tablecloth, he held up a gleaming, silvery pen. "Got it," he announced cheerfully. Charlene was the only to respond, casting Scott a femme fatale-laced smile whilst the others were too engaged in their hushed conversation to notice. Ignoring the bustling chattering going on between the older men at the table, she angled herself more towards Scott, intrigued by his handsome appearance, and coaxed him into airy conversation about the dancers on the floor.

… _Fifty-two… Seventy-eight… Ninety… Ninety-nine…_

My legs worked of their own accord, not pausing long enough to receive the go ahead from my brain, probably because they knew they'd be refused. Suddenly, I shot up from my seat as if it had gone aflame beneath me. In my periphery, Saxon's sentence died on his lips before he completed it, and he paused to glimpse questioningly up into my face. "I have to pee," I pathetically blurted, deflecting his gaze and instead burning holes into the table.

Eerie voiceless faces met my words. "Excuse me?" Saxon eventually managed to stutter, and I delighted in a momentary flutter of muted pride over the fact of having taken him by surprise.

"I'll take her," Scott suggested as if on cue. Pouting, Charlene appeared annoyed and miffed as Saxon, suspicious and grievously staring, gave us his permission and slid from the booth to allow us to leave.

I didn't question Scott about the startling, newfound acquaintance forged with Saxon, because for some reason, I had an instinctive, gut feeling that it'd cause him to bristle and close down. Right now, I figured we had the best opportunity for escape, and as we hurtled away from Saxon and his ugly home and basements and metal prisoner beds and blonde floozies in a rusty bus or stolen car, I'd then build up the courage to ask him about the sticky subject. Picking answers from his head now whilst he was unprepared to answer them would squander our chance of escape.

"Will we run out the way we came?" I wondered, intentionally keeping my body relaxed as we were still in the eye-line of the guests. Their stares were tangible on my shoulder blades, injecting fiery venom into my veins. If I somehow conveyed to them my sudden anxiety, it'd pique their interest and they'd instantly decipher that something odd was rearing its head. "Or go to the bathrooms and climb out a-"

"Ten minutes, Grey. I give you ten minutes." Scott took an abrupt, sharp detour, pivoting left and kicking open a door cleanly marked _Staff Only_. He nudged me through the threshold, pushing me effortlessly by my shoulders. "_Ten minutes_," he reiterated sternly, and then the door swung shut in my face, entirely obscuring him from view as a bolt hollowly clicked as Scott locked it.

Impenetrable darkness cloaked the room and swaddled me in its embrace. If I held my hand out directly in front of my eyes (which I didn't, in case a fanged monster hopped out and snatched it), I was sure that I wouldn't be able to see it. There was the distinct, audible _drip-drip-drip _of water, originating from the corner, and as my temperature plummeted rapidly in discomfort, I fought with the voice in my mind which joked that it was blood. The room smelled strongly of detergent. My nose crinkled at the overpowering wash of lemon, lavender and rose.

Why would Scott abandon our escape? There had not been one time in the past twelve weeks that we'd been alone together in an unconfined area unaccompanied. I was torn between irrationally screaming at the top of my lungs for him to open this door and escape with me, or crumpling into a ball on the floor in this weird room and crying. Heaving a distressed sigh, I twirled around on my flat heels. Might as well survey it first for any means of escape or protection.

Warm hands palmed my waist, no hesitation or shyness in how they gripped a hold of my hips gently. Eyes enlarging considerably in shock, I barely managed to get the faintest whisper of a scream from my mouth before fingers were clamped over my parted lips. "It's me," a voice breathed in my ear, unaffected by the arms I was pushing against his merciless chest in an attempt to free myself. His breath was warm and caressed the skin of my throat. "Angel, it's me."

"Patch?" I gasped loudly in disbelief.

"In the flesh," he responded in a joking tone. The disguised strain in his voice, I thought, would only be obvious to those who knew him well enough. My struggling ceased immediately as if someone had flipped a switch. Interpreting this as encouragement, his hands slid along my hips and waist before flattening to the small of my back. My hands went instantly to his face, smoothing over his cheeks, nose, forehead, cottony eyelashes and finally, lips.

It _was _him.

So I stepped away. Raising my hands to my chest, palms out, I created a barrier between us and stumbled backwards another couple of inches, tripping over the bunched lip of a rug on the floor. Patch's arms instantaneously went around me to steady my fall, but once I was fickly upright, I shrugged him off for the second time. His tangled confusion was palpable in the air, tingling with electricity between us, but he didn't pursue me once again, instead let his hands fall to his sides in the darkness.

I wasn't sure which hurt me more.

"Don't," I breathed shakily, holding my hands in place fixedly.

"Angel.." he softly began, voice increasing slightly in volume as he warily moved closer again. Enticing warmth reached out to touch my skin invitingly, but I shook my head through the heady sensations his proximity stirred up.

"Nora," I corrected, and even as I said it, I felt a razor-like needle pin my heart. Patch's drained sigh fanned over my cheeks.

"Don't call me angel," I told him.

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><p><strong>SO, what'd you think? <strong>

**Scott, Scott, Scott.. I just love Scott so much. What do you think of him? :D **

**And Saxon and his weirdo friends being interested in Nora..? Hm. Why ever could that be..? ;)**

**And then, of course... PATCH! :D**

**Haha, leave me a review and tell me what you think! I love hearing from you guys! **

**Thanks so much for the support :) xx**


	6. Chapter 6

**Who's got the best readers?! Me, me! :D **

**THANK YOU VERY MUCH for the reviews. So many of them. I really, really appreciate each and every one and try to reply to all of them. They make me smile SO MUCH! I can't thank you guys enough! xxxx**

**Here's the next chapter :) I hope you enjoy it and if you could leave a review or message me to tell me what you think, I'd be really happy! :D**

_**IMPORTANT NOTE: I'm changing one element of the story. In the first two chapters or so, Nora slightly mentioned how Saxon sometimes pushed, shoved or hit her. I'm changing that. It just doesn't fit in with the story-line I have planned. So:**_

_**Saxon has never physically abused Nora or Scott. He was verbally abusive (as in, insults, knocking her confidence) and cruel in the way he made them work long hours without food, but never hit or pushed them.**_

_**I'm sorry if this causes confusion, but it wasn't really a huge part of the story anyways. But, again, sorry. It just doesn't fit in with the story-line!**_

**Happy reading! :D **

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><p>For an elongated, painful moment, he said and did absolutely nothing. I felt his keen gaze on my face, and wondered if he could actually see me or if he was making a measured guess at where I stood in the nonexistent light. The only sound filling the room was the rhythmic <em>drip-drip-drip <em>of the liquid in the corner of the room and my taut breathing, which hitched softly every time the air tickled my throat. Scorched blood threatened to burn my cheeks and neck, but I fought to kick it away, swallowing though my throat ached with dryness. When suddenly Patch's fingers touched mine, gently curling my hand into his, he spoke in a placating tone before I could react. "Sit down at least," he encouraged, beginning to pull me in a direction he was sure of. "We need to talk, Nora."

The use of my name, and not his endearing nickname, brought a soundless quiver from my lips.

When he guided me to a sit on a firm, sturdy feeling wooden block, I obeyed and listened as he sat on one of the crates not far from my knees. In front of me. As I cast an apprehensive glance down at my make-shift seat, I openly questioned why it was cushioned.

"Towels," Patch answered quickly, an amused grin audible in his voice. "We're in a storeroom."

God knows that, despite myself, I wanted to laugh, but I had to focus on the more pressing issues of the present. Patch promised to explain things to me tonight. If I started allowing my walls to crumble so early into the mission and start laughing, it would take nothing for the moment to morph into kissing and then all explanations would be lost at the foot of the blazing fireworks. Clearing my throat, I wrung my hands together nervously in my lap and readjusted my feet before opening my mouth. "You said we had to be alone for you to explain everything to me," I reminded him timidly. "Now we're alone. As alone as we're ever going to be while I'm a prisoner."

I felt him wince at that.

"So talk."

He sighed. I imagined him leaning against the wall, head falling backwards as he stared up at the ceiling unseeingly. "I would've come to get you," he said wistfully. "The first day. The first _second _I was able to, I would've come to get you."

"Then why didn't you?" I questioned. "Not the first day, but the first second you were able?"

"Not that you'll believe me," he sighed. "But I did."

Gaze downcast to the shiny toes of my black shoes, I nodded. Crossed and uncrossed my legs. Tucked a stray curl behind my ear. Scott had warned me to be mean and cruel to Patch, but it just wasn't in me. I could feel the genuine anguish sitting just behind his words, bristling to break through. The guilt and anger roiling inside him over the fact that he was not able to whisk me away the second Saxon had his greedy paws on me. Consciously softening my expression and voice, I leaned forward onto my knees.

"But you didn't," I challenged, cocking an eyebrow. "I caught you with Blonde- Charlene. Twice. Kissing her."

"Blondie?" he echoed, smirking.

"_Not _the point," I retorted.

Regardless, he let a laugh slide between his lips. The sound slipped across the short distance between us and went straight to the pit of my stomach, lighting it softly with warmth. I crossed my arms over my chest and ignored the feeling.

"Charlene is.. essential to the plan," he responded once he'd sobered. "I need her-"

"You _need _her?"

"Not like that," he instantly said, a frown in his voice. This time, I imagined him running a hand through his hair. "You know that, An- Nora. I only want you. I lo-"

"Don't," I interrupted in a whisper. Respectfully, he didn't and again, I wasn't sure if by obeying my request he'd just hurt me further. "Just tell me why." My eyes tightly closed, nose scrunching and forehead wrinkling as my body wearily braced itself for the blow of a confession that he just liked her. Simple as. She was prettier and richer and would give him an all-round better future than I could.

Unsurprisingly, I was completely unprepared for what he said next. "She's Sinclair's daughter."

"_What_?"

I thought I could very faintly see him bob his head in a nod, but I wasn't sure if my eyes were playing tricks on me. "She's Saxon's one and only child. His precious daughter. It's creepy really, most of the time I think they're in lo-"

"You're… _hooking up _with the daughter of the man who's kept me and my friend as prisoners and slaves for the past three months?"

"Nah, just the past two months actually-"

"_Patch_!"

He chuckled. Wood scraped gratingly against the cement uncovered ground as he inched the crate he was sitting on precariously closer. Too enraptured and stunned by the sudden wave of familiar mint, I did nothing to stop him. His fingertips next brushed against my knees, tiptoeing cautiously along my leg until he caught my clenched fist. Uncurling my fingers, which throbbed with how firmly I had balled them, he sucked in a breath. "I wanted to just break down the house and steal you. Reckless and unplanned, who cares? I needed you to be safe. With me," he admitted. I listened. "But it didn't prove to be so easy. Sinclair has the perimeters on lockdown constantly, and even if I did get in -which I would, no doubting my skills here, Nora," now that he had drawn closer, through the shadows, I saw him wink, "I wouldn't know how to find you."

This, I grudgingly understood. Patch had made a smart decision. If he had in fact busted in and found us, we would've undeniably been caught on our escape. I didn't want to think of what Saxon would've done to him in that situation, so instead I focused on blinking and breathing and listening to Patch's caramel voice.

He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed each of my fingers tenderly. "I was going crazy without you, Angel…" He paused. "Nora."

"It's okay." Resigned, I sighed, dismissively waving my hand midair. The walls buckled further, blowing dust into my rational thinking. "Call me what you want."

He smiled warmly against the skin of my fingers. "I needed to find a way in. And then I found Charlene. She was drunk, crying because her boyfriend had recently broken up with her and wanted me to come to a party."

"So you just decided to-"

"At Sinclair Hotel."

"Oh," I squeaked. Had I served at the party? Most likely not. The odds had not been in my favour.

Patch nodded sombrely, releasing my hand. I unconsciously went to stop him, grabbing his fingers into mine again and holding them tightly. The hint of a smile graced his face, but he suppressed it. "I figured out pretty quickly who she was- Charlene Sinclair," he said. "And so I pretended to get closer to her. If our 'relationship' appeared genuine for long enough, I thought it'd convince Sinclair that we were real. That I was over you completely."

"But you weren't?"

"Never," he promised, shaking his head. "I was only getting closer to both of them to figure out why they're so interested in you. I wasn't able to just rescue you from the situation, so I decided to deal with _all _of the problems around it first."

I glanced down at our twined hands, sighing. With my free hand, I touched Patch's cheek with my shaking fingertips. "Why _are _they interested in me?" I asked gingerly, already afraid of the answer. Undulating relief flushed through my system as I was now sure that Patch had no interest whatsoever in Blondie, but I was still frightened of the conversation I'd just heard between Saxon and his companions. "Saxon and those men out there.. They're talking about me."

"You're Hank Millar's daughter," Patch said. And there was the mention of my father again. A wave of nausea gripped my stomach.

"What does that have to do with anything?" I inquired. "They were saying the same thing."

"He was a.. _powerful _Nephil, Angel," Patch gently responded. "He created a huge army completely under the archangels radar. And, besides Marcie, you're the only living descendant of him. They want you simply because you're his daughter."

Confused, I shook out my hair. "What, they want me to stare at? _Oh, look it's Hank's daughter_!"

"Saxon wants you to stand by his side." He spoke slowly, allowing each word to sink into my brain before he went onto the next. "So that you'll help him in overthrowing the Archangels." As I gasped, his hand found my face and stroked a finger soothingly along my cheekbone. "All of the things he's doing to you now- hard labour, lack of sleep, hunger… _breaking you down_.. is all to build character, he claims." Venomous disgust and unbridled anger crackled harshly in his words. "He wants to make you stronger than you already are. Stronger than Hank was.." Jaw clenched, he gritted his teeth. "I convinced him that hurting you was going to ruin his chances of making you trust him."

It worked. About four weeks previous, Saxon's 'unintentional' insults, snide comments and labour had dwindled marginally. By no means were they now fair or kind. They hit the same level of psychological cruelty but were spaced out a little bit more.

Patch moved forward. Closer. The warmth he generously doled out to me wrapped around my bare, tired arms and legs. His scent encompassed my attention entirely. "Angel," he whispered, bending so that he was at my level. Though his voice was soft, it was electric with self-loathing. "I'msorry for not coming straight away. I should've. I should've kicked down _every_…" He stopped and raked in a breath. "When I realised it would take time to get you out, I did what I thought you would want me to do. I dealt with the problem as a whole. Went straight to the root, when I should've been-"

That _is _what I would've wanted him to do. He did exactly what I would've asked him to if we had been in contact. Go in and remove the problem entirely, like a rotten tooth. So I nurtured no anger over the fact that he hadn't rescued the damsel in distress quickly, because I knew he knew and loved me well enough to do what I would want- eradicate the problem completely. In my chest, a swell of pride flittered near my heart.

"I hate it."

"What?" he whispered.

"I hate it," I breathed. Lifting my gaze to seek his, only barely intelligible through the thick black darkness, tears clouded my vision. I didn't want to cry. If anything, I _had _grown stronger in the last few weeks. But, here with Patch, breathing him in and realising that Scott would burst through the doorframe in less than three minutes and reluctantly haul me back to our captor, the urge to burst into tears was too powerful. In an effort to steady myself, I dragged in detergent-laced air through my nose, but it caught noisily in my throat. Patch's fingers slid around my cheeks, moulding to my face. My resolve began splintering at his touch. A salty teardrop escaped my lashes and I brushed it away with startling haste. But soft lips brushed the damp spot of my cheek where the tear had dropped, and all of a sudden, I was sobbing.

The only thing nailing me to the spot was Patch, who's arms firmly encircled my back. Head on his shoulder, I snaked my arms around his neck, feeling the glossy curls at the back of his skull. He stood up as I simultaneously threw my legs around his waist and squeezed him with all of my exhausted might. Bottomless tears stained and stiffened my cheeks with salt, continuing to pour from my eyes as my chest heaved wet sobs. Worried that I would attract attention with all of the noise I was making, I tried to stifle them by biting down on my fingers.

"Shh," Patch soothed, sitting down onto the block but keeping me on his lap. Gently, _gently_, he pried my cheeks off of his sodden shoulder and pushed me just far enough back that he could coax my teeth open and pull my fingers free. I sagged into his chest, my head beneath his chin as he knotted his arms around me again.

"I want Vee," I whimpered, fingering the cool leather of his jacket. He pressed his lips to my hair. "I want my mom. I want _you_."

"I'm here."

"But not really," I whispered.

A knock sounded on the door. Three distinctive raps in a row that reverberated off of the bare walls of the store room and shot alarmed bullets directly into my heart. Beneath me, Patch's body stiffened. "It's Scott," he reassured me, before I could begin frantically hyperventilating in fear that Saxon had found us. But hearing this, I only clung tighter to his warm, solid chest and allowed the tears to silently saturate my cheeks.

"Screw this."

"What?"

"Screw this," Patch repeated. Forcing me to stand, he leapt to his feet also. His hands flattened to my face and he tilted my head back, bringing his lips over mine without preamble of any kind. If he noticed that he was practically drinking tears off of my mouth, he made no indication of so. His kiss was chaste but burned my skin. Colourful, desire-drowned sparks rolled straight down my legs and caused my toes to curl into my shoes. When he finished, I was breathless and quivering all over from something more than sobbing.

"We're leaving now," Patch growled, taking me by the arm. Shocked, my eyebrows shot up and jaw dropped. "Who cares about fighting the bigger problem? I am not making the same mistakes again and I am certainly _not _leaving Saxon walk all over you, Angel. His only place is Hell. Nowhere near you."

I stumbled. Patch righted my fall, hurriedly uttering something about how he was going to hoist me up into the attic above our heads through a little hole and then we'd escape through one of the windows. More knocks rang out through the room, louder and quicker this time. A fleeting image of Scott holding my hand and kissing my forehead when I was sick and crying flashed through my mind. Guilt flared hotly in my chest, cutting sharply through my thoughts. I bit down on my lip.

"I can't leave Scott," I told Patch. Going against every single one of my instincts, which all roared _yes, yes, get out! _I dug my heels into the ground. Firmly, I shook my head and frowned. "I _won't _abandon him."

Patch's eyes glossed over me briefly before flickering up to the attic. Concerned about our lack of time, he ignored my pleas and instead grabbed me by the waist, preparing to lift me up. "Angel-"

"No. Patch, no!"

"We don't have any time."

"I _cannot _leave Scott!" I snapped, twisting out of his embrace. The fever behind my words snagged his attention finally, and realisation dawned in his charcoal eyes as if he was being pulled from a reverie. "I can't leave Scott, Patch. I love you, but I _can't_."

His expression was unreadable in the darkness, but he reached out to me once more and this time I went to him, slipping my arms around him and resting my head on his chest. The steady beat of his heart beneath my ear drowned out Scott's frantic knocking for a moment and I took a steady breath. "Tomorrow then," he said.

"You can't.." I whispered fearfully. I didn't at all like the thought of Patch in danger while saving us.

"I can. I will," he said sternly. Finger beneath my chin, he applied a tiny bit of pressure before I understood what he was doing, and tipped my head back. His lips were warm and damp on mine as he gave me a lingering, sweet kiss and when he reluctantly broke away, my tears threatened to trickle again. Tucking a curl behind my ear and tantalisingly grazing my skin with his fingers, he brushed his lips to my cheek. "I'm going to get you out tomorrow, Angel, I promise," he swore huskily against my heated skin, and then melted away into the shadows.

Scott tore open the door at that moment. Infuriated and rasping heavily, he said nothing but instead thrust an angry hand in my direction, crooked his finger and beckoned me over. "I gave you fifteen," he hissed, snatching my arm roughly and yanking me out of the doorframe. Hastily, I dried my tears with the back of my palms and fixed my dress. "Thank you," I whispered to him, as he spun me around and took hold of my elbow.

"Tomorrow," I said into his ear as we began picking our way through the crowd of dancing people again. Seconds before Saxon and Charlene and their guests would slither back into our view. Scott released his tight grip on my elbow and relaxed, flashing me a bewildered look from the corner of his eye. "Tomorrow..?" he prompted.

"Tomorrow we leave."

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><p><strong>And this is where I leave things to you guys... XD What'd ye think? :D <strong>

**I'll update soon, thank you very much for reading! x**


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